


In Sickness, Health, and in the Duck Pond at Humboldt Park

by quaxelrod (manipulant)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Chicago (City), Coffee Shops, Gen, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Same-Sex Marriage, Secret Marriage, West Town Chicago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manipulant/pseuds/quaxelrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Spencer has a perfectly good, sensible job. Brendon, his roommate, not so much. Brendon has no health insurance, which isn't that big of a deal until the day it is. Marrying him seemed like a good idea at the time.</i>
</p><p>A NO-BAND AU IN WHICH: Spencer and Brendon get married for the insurance, every single bandom person has a cameo, the city of Chicago is basically a character, Ryan and Spencer are students, Spencer works at the best Sbux ever, Nate Ruess is the shift of my heart, they go to Kuma's for the "reception", and Ryan eats a lot of bacon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Secret!Married kinkmeme on LJ, as a response to a prompt reni_days suggested. ...sorry it got totally out of hand, bb. :D? :D?

Spencer still thinks that dragging Brendon to Chicago when he followed after Ryan was a good idea. Vegas is a wasteland, and watching Brendon half-assedly piss away the very last of his mission money on classes at UNLV and then not go to them because he couldn’t afford to skip work was driving both of them crazy.

So. Spencer and Ryan are at DePaul, and Spencer’s landed a part-time job at the Starbucks on the corner from campus, and Brendon’s got a sweet little gig at a music store down Chicago Ave - he mans the counter, but he also gives lessons (guitar, drums, accordion, whatever) to a few kids there. Ryan keeps pestering Brendon to apply for financial aid and be a student with them, but Brendon likes winding him up by insisting he’s holding out for Loyola. (“Y’know, Ryan. A _real_ school.” “Fuck you and your face and your mother.” “Don’t pretend you didn’t apply to DePaul because of Pete Wentz, fanboy.”)

The three of them share a basement apartment on the side of Humboldt Park. It’s only a 2 bedroom, but they’ve got a couch and they rotate who has to sleep on it by month, and usually whoever’s supposed to be sleeping on it winds up crashing on the full bed in the bigger bedroom anyway. It works.

What _doesn’t fucking work_ , in Spencer’s expert opinion, is how Brendon is still the total fucking dumbass he was back in Vegas, except now his dumbassery keeps translating into a propensity to get himself halfway killed. In the five months they’ve been in Chicago, Brendon:

1\. developed a death rattle in his lungs that lasted all last winter. It made him sound like a frog and worried the shit out of Spencer, until he found out that Brendon was totally exacerbating an already bad situation by drinking a pot of coffee every day at the music store, and waiting until Spencer’d passed out at night and then hiding in the alley behind their place and discussing the Arcade Fire and 60s surf bands with Ryan, the two of them smoking a pack and a half of cigarettes every night. For one, the sin tax on those things was fucking unbelievable and that was money that could’ve been going towards rent or shoes. For two, Brendon sounded like he was in the last stages of consumption already and didn’t need the help of the cigarettes.

Ryan still grumbles about the epic fit Spencer threw in his direction.

2\. got food poisoning from a sketch hot dog place somewhere in Wrigleyville. He’d eventually been fine, but Spencer didn’t much relish caretaking for the three days after, or how it happened smack in the middle of midterms, or his 2 am runs to Walgreens for ginger ale and crackers. Also Brendon is absolutely insufferable when he’s sick, and Spencer hadn’t really enjoyed how Ryan pulled an amazing disappearing act and left _him_ to having to press cool washcloths to the back of Brendon’s neck while he was holding onto the toilet for dear life, and having to watch Aladdin on repeat for an entire 24 hours.

3\. fucking got _hit by a car_ biking back from doing inventory at the store at four in the morning. Again, he’d been fine eventually, but there was a span of mottled blue and purple bruises around one side of his rib cage that had scared the everloving shit out of Spencer. He’d actually made Brendon go to the emergency clinic up on North just to make sure his ribs weren’t broken, and had enforced it by threatening to call his own mom if Brendon didn’t cooperate. (It’s a little distressing, how Spencer’s mom is still Brendon’s favorite person in the universe. Distressing and unfair.)

4\. fell the fuck into the duck pond in the park. In November.

Nobody’s really sure how that one happened. Apparently it had a lot to do with Van Vleet and Tomrad (two of Brendon’s coworkers) and a fuckton of bourbon. And the fact that they lived above a liquor store.

Anyway, so they didn’t know how it _happened_ but they definitely knew how it _ended_ : with Brendon huddled under a mountain of blankets in the kitchen with the heaters blasting on high and the oven turned on and open, being bitched out (again) by Spencer, who really sort of hated how this whole Chicago adventure was turning him into his mother.

“Your fucking lips are fucking blue,” Spencer screeched, even as he poured Brendon a cup of tea and put it in his hands and made sure his fingers were curled around it (Brendon still couldn’t feel them). “ _Blue_ , Brendon.”

And then he’d ranted about Brendon’s complete inability to take care of himself, even a little bit, even the little bit required to make sure all his _limbs_ were still attached and that he wasn’t _falling into duck ponds_. Because Spencer’s biggest problem with all of this is that, yet again, Brendon is working totally without a safety net - the music store is awesome, but not the sort of place that offers its employees things like 401ks or, y’know, health insurance. Every day is basically Brendon Urie taking his life into his own hands the minute he steps out their door, and Brendon’s butterfingers re: his own stupid existence are going to give Spencer an ulcer.

“The next time you do something this stupid,” he fumed, as he dumped the requisite pack and a half of Sweet n Low in the tea for Brendon, “I’m fucking taking over. I’m going to drag your flat, sorry ass downtown and we’re getting married. And then I’m going to take you directly to the nearest hospital and make them put you in a fucking _bubble_ and then, Brendon, I will roll you like a _hamster_ onto the train and I will be _happy_. And I will be able to sleep for more than four hours without worrying about you managing to get yourself killed.”

“He’d probably try to roll the hamster ball down Michigan Avenue,” Ryan mused, stirring his own cup of tea thoughtfully. 

Brendon stared at them both. “My ass isn’t flat,” he finally croaked.

 

Which informs their present circumstances: drunk as fuck somewhere between the Rainbo Club and Lorraine’s, celebrating the end of the semester and Spencer’s awesome Christmas present from Ryan and Brendon: a fake ID.

They’re just hammered, completely fucking _gone_ , and Ryan has been waxing poetic about Rahm Emanuel and H. H. Holmes for the last fifteen minutes, and Spencer can’t feel his face (he isn’t sure whether it’s because of the stinging cold or because of the fourth Jack and Coke) and Brendon is talking enthusiastically and almost pornographically about how in a few minutes they are going to be eating all the french toast and bacon, fucking _all of it,_ Spencer Smith, and Ryan’s beaming and shouting about LET’S BE LIKE THE UNICORN ON MY T-SHIRT: FUCKING INCREDIBLE, and Brendon’s joining in, making up a song about coffee, the glorious motherfucking bean, and for a brief, shining moment, Spencer’s life is like a fucking movie. 

“ALL THE BACON, Smith!” Brendon shouts, shimmying across the street and making stupid come-hither motions with his hands as he waits for Spencer to catch up to him. Spencer hops up onto the sidewalk and he can see the sign for Lorraine’s just in the distance, flickering red neon at them, and then from beside him, Brendon does this ridiculous little two-step hop skip of joy.

And rolls his fucking ankle.

Which fucking figures. Brendon gives a little nervous yelp, and then looks over at Spencer and Ryan, all big eyes and _but why would the world want to hurt me?_ written on his face, and then he topples over into the couple of inches of snow that have accumulated on the streets. Ryan’s still a drunk fucking mess, and Spencer’s still a little fuzzy around the edges, for all that Brendon’s horrified face managed to sober him up, so between the three of them they manage to get Brendon standing in just over five minutes. At least they’re not in the middle of the street.

Spencer’s already whipped out his phone to find the nearest emergency care place, but Brendon scoffs and hops a little, wincing as he pushes out of their arms and starts taking steps gingerly down the sidewalk. “It’s not that bad,” he says gamely, turning to beam at them. Spencer peers at him, and yeah, Brendon’s still pretty fucking trashed. “Onward!” Brendon shouts, pointing himself back towards Lorraine’s. Ryan cheers.

Spencer gapes at them both. “You’re joking, right?”

Brendon looks over his shoulder, and grins a little winsome grin. “I never joke about french toast and bacon, Smith the Fifth,” he says, mock-solemn. And he starts walking again, hop-skipping with Ryan down the sidewalk towards the diner, with Spencer staring anxiously at their backs.

He sighs, and follows.

The waitress at the diner falls prey to Brendon’s little boy lost routine, and immediately produces a bag of frozen french fries from the back somewhere for him to put on his ankle. The three of them occupy a table in the otherwise deserted room; Brendon and Spencer on one side, Brendon’s foot propped in the opposite chair, and Ryan opposite Spencer. Brendon beams hazily at everything and talks a mile a minute with the lady rebrewing the coffee, all about her night and the drunks she’s expecting later and her kid and her kid’s elementary school and how her kid wanted a DS for Christmas and how he’s over at a friend’s for a sleepover and was stoked about the possibility of playing Rock Band.

“Does he play an instrument?” Brendon asks immediately, eyes shining. Spencer groans into his coffee, and Ryan sips his, stoic in his longsuffering. 

“Drums. Well, he wants to. I’m not about to get him any and get us evicted just in time for all the snow,” the waitress quips, smiling at them all like they’re her nephews, long-gone relatives visiting for a night. (It amazes Spencer, sometimes, how many people in Chicago want to take care of Brendon. Or Ryan. And, by proxy, him.)

Brendon beams at her, and then at Spencer, and nudges him with an elbow. “Drums!” he says, in case Spencer missed it. He turns back to her and explains. “Spence plays. I do too, um, a little.” He fiddles with the spoon in his coffee for a second, rolling his shoulders, and then gestures. “You could - okay. The music store across the street?” he says, pointing with the spoon haphazardly, “I work there. Bring him by, we’ve got drums. I give lessons. I owe you for the french fries, right?” he says, waving at where the bag of them is still curled around his ankle propped on the chair.

Spencer tucks into his eggs and tunes out the rest of the conversation. He’s heard basically the exact same exchange more than a few times before, and he doesn’t want to revisit his lecture on capitalism and how Brendon is Doing It Wrong. He works systematically through the food on his plate, and by the time he’s finished, Brendon almost is and Ryan’s been done and is silently working through the Times crossword he always has secreted somewhere on his person. The sky is getting lighter outside. Spencer’s pretty sure he has to be at work in four hours.

“Done, B?” he asks, flicking him on his shoulder to get his attention. Brendon turns and nods at him, immediately reaching to drain his coffee cup and shovel the last forkful of french toast into his mouth. Spencer rises and settles the bill, taking care of Ryan’s too since otherwise it’ll tack on another ten minutes to their departure time.

When Brendon stands, Spencer watches interestedly as his face goes a little white when he tries to put weight on his foot. Brendon puts on his game face, though, and cheerily says bye to the waitress (she’s bringing her kid in next Tuesday) and tromps out the door behind Spencer, both of them trailing behind Ryan, who wafted out the door and is lazily smoking a cigarette, leaning against the stoplight. “Feeling no pain?”

“No pain at all,” Brendon says, a little strained. Spencer glares at him, and then gestures and turns.

“Fucking liar,” Spencer mutters, as Brendon carefully climbs onto his back. “You’ve gotta stop doing stupid shit like this, or I’m going to have to go to a chiropractor,” he complains, as he starts to follow Ryan towards home.

“I don’t mean to,” Brendon says, a little sadly, his voice very near Spencer’s ear. “Thanks, Spence,” he murmurs, before he tucks his face into the side of his neck. His cheek is warm against Spencer’s skin.

 

Spencer peels himself out of bed way too few hours later and ignores the way his stomach rolls in protest. Beside him, Ryan grumbles a little, and beside Ryan, Brendon snores softly, his arm flung over his eyes. “‘kin cold,” Ryan mutters, and Spencer rolls his eyes and tucks the comforter up higher around his shoulders before he pads into the bathroom for a quick shower.

He almost misses the bus, skidding across a patch of ice and nearly faceplanting in front of the bus shelter as he gets in line to get on. He actually scores a seat, fucking _sweet_ , and closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cool window and zoning out for the majority of his commute, his earbuds blaring a weird combination of Rush and Kanye and _Take This To Your Grave_. The Fullerton bus is late, of fucking course, so when he finally gets to his stop, he has to haul ass to his Starbucks, sliding into the door four minutes late, ducking his head to avoid Nate’s accusing stare. “I know, sorry, I know,” he says, as he rushes towards the back room, already peeling off his coat and scarves and grabbing his apron out of his bag.

Nate puts him on cold bar, as punishment. Spencer grits his teeth and smiles as tourists and freshmen (he hates his peers) come in and order frappuccinos. He supposes he looks pretty out of it, though, because Nate only gives him fifteen minutes of the silent treatment. As soon as there’s a lull in customers, Nate rounds on him and looks him over, pursing his lips up, epically judgey. “Long night?”

Spencer scowls. “Brendon tripped on the way to the diner and I’m pretty sure he broke his ankle,” he says shortly, leaving out the obvious _we were all really drunk_. To his credit, Nate winces, sucks his teeth, and hands Spencer an iced soy chai, and gestures for him to keep going. Spencer shrugs a shoulder, takes a sip of his drink - Nate remembered to put a shot of espresso in it, Nate is the _best_. “There wasn’t even any ice. He just fucking tripped over his own legs or something, I don’t even know.”

“Like a baby giraffe!” Nate says, breaking into a sudden smile that takes over half his face. He nods, rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can see it.”

“Only less graceful,” Spencer sighs. “And he won’t fucking go to a doctor, so that’s - “

“I’m not letting you out of closing tomorrow,” Nate interrupts, pointing a finger at him. “I’m still mad at you for bailing on me with _Saporta_ just so you could give B his fucking baby aspirin or whatever for the last cold he caught.”

“Fuck off, Ruess, jesus,” Spencer says, outraged. “...And that wasn’t a cold, he had goddamn bronchitis.”

A customer slides through the door just then, putting pause to the conversation. Nate mouths _baby aspirin_ at Spencer before pasting on an entirely fake smile and turning to take the girl’s order. He hands off her frappuccino cup with a flourish to Spencer, who glares daggers, but makes the damn thing and hands it off to her. He watches as the girl doesn’t look up from furiously texting on her phone as she tries to unwrap a straw. Fucking freshmen. “Have a great day!” Spencer says loudly, just to be an ass, as she heads towards the door.

“ _Oh my god, the baristas there are so rude,_ ” Nate says in an undertone, standing beside him, wiping down the cold bar counters. “ _And they totally didn’t give me enough whipped cream on my caramel light frappe._ ”

“ _Or enough caramel sauce. Like, god, it’s already light, and I’m tipping you, I want all of the caramel sauce_ ,” Spencer murmurs back, beginning to grin. “ _It’s not that difficult. It’s not like it’s a hard job. Just give me exactly what I want without me having to tell you._ ”

Nate chokes, and starts giggling. “You’re going to get us all fired, Smith. Go do dishes. I’ll yell if we need you.”

 

Spencer loves doing dishes. He doesn’t have to deal with fucking customers, and he can bang around in the sinks in the back and shove things in and out of the big Hobart dishwasher. It billows out steam every time he opens it, and his apron gets fucking soaked, and it’s basically the best. Plus whoever’s on their break tends to hide in the back room as well (except for the Ways, who mainline cigarettes out in the alley like they’re getting paid per drag), so there’s usually someone to talk to. Usually.

Patrick’s in the back, but he’s caught up in a bunch of computer shit, trying to sort out the schedule for next week and process the markout reports. He looks over at Spencer once or twice, but otherwise doesn’t remark, even when Spencer pulls out his ipod and starts singing along (badly) to Something Corporate. He even joins in a couple of times.

When Spencer’s winding down on the stack of dishes, Patrick shuffles some papers and stands, stretching. “So why’re you back here?” he asks Spencer, smiling crookedly. “How’d you piss Nate off?”

“I didn’t!” Spencer protests. “We were doing the frappuccino bitch voice.”

“Ah.” Patrick nods wisely. “That explains it. ...I’ve got you down for mostly closes next week, is that cool with you?”

Spencer nods. “Yeah. Um...yeah, if you wanted to schedule me as much as possible for the next couple of weeks, that’d be good,” he adds, cringing a little. “Brendon did something to his ankle. Doubt he’s going to be able to pull many lessons.”

“Shit,” Patrick hisses. “Did he break it?”

“Who the fuck knows, he won’t go to the doctor.”

“Well, what a dumbass,” Patrick says fondly. Spencer’s pretty sure Brendon is Patrick’s favorite customer, after they spent 20 minutes one night geeking out over the Beach Boys. “Pete’s like that too. Took him getting double pneumonia and almost losing his contract with the school, _and_ me yelling at him every day for a couple of weeks, before he’d go.” He rolls his eyes. “I fucking pay for that insurance every paycheck, might as well get some use out of it, right?”

Spencer blinks, and then gives Patrick an uneasy smile, because suddenly he’s remembering a lot of yelling about hamster balls and bubbles and threatening Brendon with marriage. “Yeah. ...Yeah, totally.”

Patrick packs up and heads out, and Spencer finishes the rest of the dishes in silence. When he’s done, he comes back out into the cafe, and leans against the nearest register, biting on his bottom lip.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” Nate asks, banging around on the espresso machine. Spencer worries some more at his lip for a few seconds, and then rolls his shoulders.

“So, like. Starbucks does the same benefits for same-sex couples, right?”

Nate raises an eyebrow at him, but nods. “Yuh-huh.”

“Is it, like.” Spencer fidgets, rearranging a stack of Starbucks cards hanging out on the register. “Do you have to wait for open enrollment to put them on your plan, or what?”

Nate abandons his attempt to clean the espresso wand, and begins to smirk at Spencer, leaning on his elbow against the counter. “Nope. You have forty-five days after the marriage to have them put on there.”

Spencer can feel his cheeks heating through. He presses his cold, still slightly pruney fingertips against his skin, and tries to figure out why he’s suddenly finding it kind of hard to breathe.

“Spence?” Nate asks him a handful of seconds later, still standing guard over at the espresso machine. “You want me to get your shift covered for tomorrow?”

Spencer sucks in a rattly breath, and nods.

He’s not really prepared for the squeak of glee Nate gives, or the tackling hug, but they help. Because jesus fuck, jesus _fuck_ , his circumstances are perfect for this and it’s sound financial planning and everything, but he can’t get over the fact that when he gets off work, he’s going to go home and propose to one of his best friends.

 

It’s totally romantic. Totally. 

Brendon’s still in bed when Spencer gets back, and he has epic bed hair and a hazy smile for him, up until Spencer tugs the blankets off the bed and inspects Brendon’s ankle.

It’s swollen up to the size of a grapefruit, and his toes are weird colors, and the whole thing is just really distressing. Brendon struggles and squawks and eventually manages to get Spencer to let go of the blankets so he can tug them back up over himself, but yeah, Brendon’s ankle is just unnatural and wrong. Spencer tells him as much.

“The swelling’s actually gone down a lot,” Brendon says, reaching new levels of unhelpful in his commentary. He seems to realize this, at Spencer’s expression, and lapses back into apologetic silence.

“Does it hurt? From one to ten.”

“Um...nah, not too bad. Maybe a three? Ryan gave me one of the pills he got off of Gabe, so, y’know. After the walls stopped melting, everything turned pretty nice,” Brendon jokes, giving Spencer a quick smile. Spencer can’t really return it.

Instead, he hops onto the bed and opens his bag, pulling out the papers Nate printed off for him in the back. He tosses them over onto Brendon’s chest, watching impassively as Brendon picks them up and squints. Spencer huffs and grabs Brendon’s glasses from the bedside table and hands them over.

He waits until he sees Brendon’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Yep,” he says lamely, as Brendon looks back up at him. “So, um. We could. I asked Nate about it, and then I called the Benefits hotline and they said yeah, and I called the - the court house, and they - “

Brendon interrupts him. “You - you really want to - “

“You keep getting _hurt_ , B,” Spencer says, despairingly. “It’s just.” The next part is necessary, but it still hurts like a motherfucker, as much as it hurt when Spencer was rehearsing all of this on the bus back home. “It’s just a piece of paper. And it means you’ll be able to get real medicine and not the Gabe Saporta Special. And, y’know, we can just say ‘oops, our bad’ when you get rich and famous, and - “

“ - it’s better than sticking me in a hamster ball and rolling me down Michigan Avenue?” Brendon finishes for him, giving him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. For a minute, they’re both quiet, hunched into themselves on the bed, looking at the papers between them. “Do you want to?” he asks, looking up at Spencer from under his lashes.

 _This is the dumbest thing I am ever going to do in my life,_ Spencer realizes suddenly. He tries for a smile, fails, and nods instead. “I want to help,” he says, gesturing towards Brendon’s ankle. “I can’t - it’s killing me, Bren. When this shit happens, and I can’t fix it, and I need to.”

“So get me some ibuprofen, don’t - “

“ _Brendon_ ,” Spencer manages, past the lump lodged in his throat, his voice sounding weird and thick. “I can’t - just fucking _look at your leg_ , it’s awful, and you fell in a pond and you keep getting _sick_ and it’s my fucking fault you’re here in Chicago in the first place, fucking...living off of stale pastries and ramen, and I couldn’t fix it, any of it, until Patrick said about Pete today and it was like all of a sudden I had a way to fix _everything_ , and make it okay again, and I need to so bad, I need - “

“Okay,” Brendon interrupts, reaching for his wrist and squeezing it. Spencer looks up, and Brendon gives him a weird little smile. “It’s okay, Spence. I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Brendon pushes himself up a little on the bed, and waggles his eyebrows at Spencer, his smile turning warmer. “So. Gonna make an honest man of me?”

Spencer’s laugh surprises him, relief flooding warm and thick through him as he scoots closer on the bed, sprawling out and squeezing one of Brendon’s hands, tight. “Guess it’s about time, seeing as I stole you away to the big city.”

Brendon snorts, and drops his head back onto his pillow, still smiling. “Damn straight, Smith. I’m not some cheap floozy.”

“You’re very expensive, it’s true,” Spencer agrees, smiling as Brendon begins to laugh too. “I was thinking, um. We could do it tomorrow. I got my tips today, so I’ve got the cash for the license and everything. And Ryan has the day off so he can come down with us. If you - if you want.”

Brendon’s laughter trails off, and Spencer starts to get a little worried. But then Brendon’s hand squeezes his again, and he nods. “Sounds perfect.”

Spencer sighs, rueful, as he props himself up on one elbow to look Brendon over. “I know it kind of sucks, but - “

“Nah, actually,” Brendon interrupts him, _again_. “It’s good. It’ll be good, Spence.” He bites his lip, and smiles up at him. “Thanks.”

Spencer breathes, and flops down onto the bed again, pressing his cheek into Brendon’s shoulder, boneless with exhaustion now that he’s gotten through getting B to say okay. He still has a hold of one of Brendon’s hands, tucked up underneath his own chest somewhere, and he’s pretty sure Brendon’s petting his hair a little. So for the next little while, he drifts, finally certain that he and Brendon and Ryan are totally taken care of.

 

The next morning Spencer wakes up, and immediately thinks _I’m getting married today_. It’s a jarring thought, and for a few seconds, he feels sort of dizzy and really fucking nervous about it.

Then, of course, Ryan and Brendon come bounding in (well, Brendon bounds. Ryan kind of saunters in like he’s lost but doesn’t have any other place to be) and Brendon immediately crawls onto the tiny bed with him, poking him incessantly. “Hey, g’morning! My ankle’s almost human-sized again!”

“Congratulations on your ankle,” Spencer yawns, rubbing his eyes and tugging his pillow up over his head. “Still hurt?”

“Like a motherfucker,” Brendon tells him, sounding cheerful enough about it. “It’s cool. Ryan gave me coffee and a couple of Advil for it.” Spencer pulls his pillow away and looks over at Ryan, horrified. Ryan shrugs.

“He got to the coffee pot before I could say no,” he tells Spencer. “It’s not like I actually gave it to him. It wasn’t premeditated caffeination.”

“I appreciate that,” Spencer says dryly, putting the pillow back over his face. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Noooo,” Brendon huffs, poking him again. “Downtown. Wedding shit. I told Ryan he could do your makeup.”

“It’s my face,” Spencer complains, muffled underneath his pillow. “I don’t want to look like a mime.”

“I was thinking about going more ICP, actually,” Ryan murmurs, annoyed.

“Brendon doesn’t decide what happens to my face.”

“In a few hours we will be _as one_ , Smith. I can totally decide that. It’s legal.” And then Brendon digs his fingers into Spencer’s ribs, which, _ow_ , so Spencer has no choice but to get up and knuckle-punch Brendon in the thigh. 

Brendon squawks and pinches Spencer’s arm, hard, and then it devolves into a flurry of hair-pulling and slapping until Ryan wades in and threatens to punch Brendon’s ankle if they don’t fucking stop.

“Seriously, this is the worst affront to the institution of marriage since...Henry the Eighth,” Ryan grouses. “Spencer. Shower. Brendon, fucking settle down and show me what you’re wearing for the thing.”

Brendon bites his lip, and looks down at his t-shirt and jeans combination. “Um.”

Ryan’s stare turns shocked and angry. “No.”

“But.”

“You are fucking _marrying_ Spencer fucking Smith,” Ryan snaps, folding his arms tight around his chest. “ _You_ are. You will fucking well dress for the occasion.”

There’s a beat. Spencer feels his chest (already alternating between too tight and too loose for all his organs) squeeze dramatically, as he takes in the awkward, tense set of Ryan’s shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched. Ryan hadn’t reacted particularly _badly_ to his and Brendon’s idea when they told him about it the night before, but there hadn’t been a plethora of _mazel tov_ s from him either, and now Spencer’s starting to get why.

Brendon’s apparently come to the same conclusion Spencer has, and inches towards Ryan, looking apologetic. “Okay. Okay, Ryan. ...Wanna help?”

Ryan sighs, and nods. “I’m too afraid not to,” he says, not quite reaching the level of disdain Spencer knows he’s going for. “Otherwise you’ll just show up at the courthouse in a snuggie and sweatpants.”

Spence shoves the blankets off of himself and crawls out of bed, grabbing for his towel and wrapping an arm around Ryan’s shoulder and holding on for a bit. After a few seconds, he feels Ryan reach up to pat his back. “Best man,” he says, curling down to press his cheek to the top of Ryan’s head. 

“Best _everything_ ,” Ryan counters, sounding snide, though his hand fists in the back of Spencer’s ratty t-shirt and he holds on tight for a while. 

“M’just borrowing him for a little bit, Ryan,” Brendon pipes up from back on the bed. “That’s all.”

Spencer can feel Ryan sigh, long and quiet. “You are two of the biggest idiots on the planet,” he pronounces, before he lets go of Spencer and shoves him in the direction of the door. “Go shower. We’re getting lunch with Tom and Jon and Van Vleet and I intend to get ridiculously shitfaced.”

“No duck ponds,” Spencer immediately says, as he wanders out of his room, towards the bathroom.

 

Brendon’s something old is his glasses. His something new is the awesome pair of gloves Spencer and Ryan got him for Christmas. His something borrowed is a tweed blazer from Ryan, and his something blue is the old, soft Motion City Soundtrack shirt he stole from Spencer back when they were in Vegas, living in each other’s pockets and crashing each night on the futon in Brendon’s shitty studio apartment.

 

It’s bitter cold outside, but no new snow, and Spencer double- and triple-checks that he and Brendon have their IDs (the real ones) and pens and a notebook, just in case. Ryan chivvies them outside, and they all walk in relative quiet to the bus stop, Spencer watching Brendon carefully for any sign that his limp is getting worse.

They get the 65 down to the Blue Line, and Spencer makes sure Brendon and Ryan both have seats, hovering over them on the bus and sitting across the aisle on the train. The steps back down to the street prove to be kind of difficult, until Spencer offers to give Brendon a piggyback ride out of the station. His lungs threaten to explode after, and Ryan can’t quite hide how he’s sniggering behind his hand as he smokes and waits for Spencer to stop gasping in breaths once they’re back on the sidewalk.

“...Fuck...you,” Spencer wheezes, his cheeks still bright red. Beside him, Brendon fidgets worriedly. 

“I told you I was too heavy!” he cries, rubbing his back. “What the fuck, I’m going to be a fucking widow.”

“Widow _er_ ,” Ryan supplies helpfully.

“Going to...kill,” Spencer threatens, pointing a finger in Ryan’s direction. “Seriously.”

“I’m pretty sure I could outrun you,” Ryan says smoothly, reaching down to put out his cigarette on his boot heel before flicking the butt into the street. “Can we get this show on the road?”

“Seriously, are you okay?” Brendon asks Spencer, looking him over, concerned. “Want me to get you a drink? There’s a Dunkin Donuts, I could get you something.”

“No, I’m cool,” Spencer says, waving away the concern. “Just took me a minute.” He straightens up, and pushes his hair out of his face. “How about you? Y’good?”

Brendon nods, and gives him a game smile. “I’m awesome, Spencer Smith.”

“Good,” Spencer says, smiling back. His nerves are starting to crop back up, making it hard to swallow since his stomach’s in the way. 

“Hurry the hell up, we’ve got things to do,” Ryan calls, from down at the crosswalk. Spencer rolls his eyes, but starts towards him, turning to make sure Brendon’s beside him. A few steps in, he feels Brendon’s hand sliding up against his own, their fingers tangling together, and Spencer bites his lip.

The Daley Center is kind of overwhelming, and for once, Spencer’s really glad he got Ryan to come with him on this errand - Ryan can navigate some motherfucking corridors, it’s like a weird sixth sense, and he somehow manages to parse the hallway and elevator directions, leading them unerringly to the right clerk’s office.

Ryan lounges in one of the office chairs, flipping boredly through a six-year-old copy of Nat Geo as Brendon and Spencer fill out paperwork and present their IDs. Spencer can feel Brendon vibrating from nerves beside him, and he reaches out to grab his wrist, his thumb and his index finger touching around it. 

Finally, they’re hauled in front of a judge, Ryan sliding in behind them. They’ve opted for the no-frills ceremony, so aside from the three of them and the judge, the only other people in the room are another couple waiting for their turn. 

Spencer’s been sort of operating under the assumption that this idea of his will always somehow remain abstract, so seeing Brendon about a foot in front of him, looking terrified and sort of gleeful as his eyes keep cutting away to the judge, is kind of a shock. His hands are as clammy as Spencer’s are, and he’s just _beaming_ , and Spencer thinks, very clearly, _oh shit._

“...as you both shall live?” the judge-lady asks, looking at Spencer expectantly. He stares back at her blankly for a second, before his brain kicks back in. 

“Right, yeah, um.” He can hear Ryan snort behind him, and he ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. “Yeah, totally. I do.”

“Good job, Spence,” Brendon whispers to him, obviously trying not to laugh himself. Spencer smiles sweetly at him, and digs his fingernails into Brendon’s palms for a second, so that Brendon yelps out his own “I do.” It makes Spencer feel better. Less at sea, anyway.

For at least fifteen seconds, until he hears the judge say “you may kiss your spouse.” And seriously, Spencer really needs to reevaluate his life and his choices, because he’s pretty sure there’s no one else in the world who would forget that at the end of weddings, yeah, there’s traditionally a kiss involved. 

His shock must show on his face a little, because Brendon’s kind of smirking up at him. And then B takes a tiny step forward, tilting his chin up, daring him, and Spencer thinks _ohoho_. 

He forgets sometimes that Brendon is a tiny little fucker, so he’s kind of shocked again when his arm cinches tight around Brendon’s waist and he’s suddenly so close. Brendon’s eyes widen a little and Spencer’s perversely glad, even in the midst of feeling like he’s been smacked in the face by a two by four. 

Brendon smells like aftershave, and his jaw is smooth against Spencer’s hand, and his lips are warm and a little chapped against Spencer’s mouth. He feels Brendon suck in a tiny breath, feels the way Brendon grips tight to his arm for balance, and Spencer shivers a little at how Brendon’s rubbing his shoulder gently.

It probably lasts all of five seconds. When Spencer pulls back, Brendon looks just as hazy as he feels. Spencer glances over at the judge, who gives him an indulgent sort of smile and gestures that the two of them are done. “Good luck, babies,” she tells them, patting Brendon on the back. “Take care of each other.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, still holding onto Brendon, the two of them still kind of clinging to each other, shocked at what they’ve done. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

Behind him, Ryan pretends to throw up.


	2. Chapter 2

They still have to sign a few things for the marriage certificate, but after that, they’re free. They all manage to get onto the elevators and then out of the Daley Center, and as soon as they’re outside on the sidewalk again, Brendon gets hit with a contagious fit of giggles. It spreads to Spencer pretty quickly, until even Ryan is grinning at them, fond and exasperated.

“Oh my god,” Brendon gasps, clutching at Spencer’s lapels. “Oh my god, _Spence_. We’re fucking married.”

“Right?” Spencer beams, holding him up by his elbows, keeping him close. “Holy shit. I’m a husband.”

They beam at each other for a little bit, until Ryan declares that his stomach is eating his other internal organs, and pushes them back towards the Clark station. Ryan even lets Spencer and Brendon have two seats together when they get the Red Line, and elects to sit on both their laps down to the Fullerton stop.

They’re meeting Jon and Tom and Van Vleet at Spencer’s cafe (Tom Conrad had worked at Spencer’s Starbucks for a grand total of eight days - he’d been pretty good at it, until he didn’t show up for an opening shift. Turned out he’d gotten completely wasted with his band the night before and woken up at noon the next day, in the boathouse at Humboldt Park, stark naked except for a poncho. He’s kind of a legend). They’re only ten minutes late getting there, so they know that they’re in for at least a half hour wait before Jon shambles in to give them an accurate ETA re: Tom and VV. They’ve never once made it to lunch before 3 in the afternoon.

Ryan elbows the door open and waits for a couple of undergrads to file out. He steals their table out from under the noses of a group of tourists, and Brendon heads over to deposit his coat and scarf and gloves on the chairs so nobody tries to grab them. Spencer just heads straight for the counter.

“Smithy! Baby! Light of my miserable fucking life!” Saporta crows, from over near the oven. “Thanks for the shift, bro. Pet store fucking cut my hours. Again.”

“They’re gonna keep doing that until you stop stealing the feeder mice,” Spencer tells him, giving him a tight little smile. He’s a nice enough guy and all, but _fuck_ , Saporta is weird.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabe tells him loftily. “You here for tips?”

“Nah, got ‘em yesterday. Waiting on Tomrad and Sean to get here.”

“Oh, fuck, good luck with that. I saw Tom down at Continental at, like, three last night, doing shots with Luciani.”

“Great,” Spencer sighs. “Fucking great. Can I get a drink?”

“Yeah, boo. What d’you want?”

Spencer opens his mouth to reply, but Brendon pops up behind him. “Quad grande white mocha,” he says quickly, grinning for Spencer when he turns around, aghast. “With extra whip.”

Gabe makes a whipping sound. “Got it, sweetcheeks.”

“Not quad,” Spencer amends quickly. “Regular shots.” Brendon huffs, and worms his hand underneath Spencer’s coat, pinching his side. 

“I’ll give you half a shot more,” Gabe stage-whispers to Brendon, winking at him. Brendon laughs nervously, and kind of ducks behind Spencer again (Saporta makes a point of hitting on Brendon every time he sees him). “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my favorite apple-bot - “

“Gabe,” Nate barks, appearing at the back room doors suddenly. “You fucking forgot to turn off the sinks again.”

“Oh, fuck,” Gabe says, wincing. 

“Yep. So you get to clean up the mini Lake Michigan back there,” he snaps, pushing his hands up through his hair til it stands up crazily, stomping over towards the registers. “I’ll take over bar, just - just go.”

Gabe nods and slinks off, giving Spencer a ridiculous, exaggerated pout as he shuffles by. Nate rubs his forehead, and groans when Gabe gets to the back and yells, excitedly, “HOLY FUCK, it’s like a fucking FOAM PARTY back here! Smith, you gotta come see it!” Spencer winces, and wanders over to the handoff plane for his drink.

“I am going to murder that man. Straight up homicide,” Nate mutters, before glancing up and actually looking at Spencer for the first time. His eyes narrow. “The fuck?”

“You offered to get my shift covered,” Spencer reminds him hastily. “That was all you.”

“Thanks,” Brendon pipes up, from behind him. He slides out from Spencer’s shadow, and waves a little at Nate, who visibly softens. And then seems to remember his and Spencer’s conversation from yesterday morning, because his eyes start to fucking _shine_.

“So,” Nate says, his mouth twitching at he looks back and forth at them. “Having a good day off, Spence?”

“Um, yeah,” Spencer says, and fuck, he can feel his face getting _so red_. “Y’know. Just hanging out, taking it easy. Went downtown for a little bit.”

On the other side of the counter, Nate makes a really weird squeaky choking noise.

“The Daley Center’s pretty interesting,” Brendon adds, beaming at Spencer when he turns to grin. “Parts of it.”

Nate flaps his hands at them, and opens his mouth to say something - which is, of course, when the door opens and a regular comes in ( _doppio-macchiato-in-a-tall-cup-with-foam-up-to-the-top-hey-hey-why-are-you-charging-me-for-a-latte-this-is-bullshit-also-I-wanted-soy_ ). Nate’s chest expands with the sudden influx of rage, and he points a finger at the man, narrowing his eyes accusingly. “No, Absolutely not. Out.”

The guy stops, and gives him a deer in the headlights kind of look. “What?”

“We’re closed.”

“But there are a bunch of other people in here,” the guy points out, looking bewilderedly at Spencer. Spencer gives him a cool look back; this is the same asshole who called Spencer a “fucking emo fag” and threatened to get him fired during his first week. 

“They’re working. It’s an art installation,” Nate snaps, shooing him and glaring until the dude (who has at least a foot on Ruess) gives up and heads back out the door. He turns back to Spencer and Brendon, and smiles. “So! Daley Center.”

“We got married,” Spencer says simply, beginning to laugh at the happy little jig Nate does, turning the steaming wand off and on for percussion. “It was awesome.”

“It was ridiculous and the least romantic thing that’s ever happened,” Ryan calls, from where he’s still managing to hold down a six-person table armed only with a couple of coats, a scarf, and a Times crossword. “Spencer had one line and almost forgot it.”

Nate snickers and pushes Brendon’s drink over towards them; Brendon snatches it up and gives Spencer a smirk as he heads off to sit down at the table. “Congratulations?” he says, raising his eyebrows at Spencer, who shrugs back.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I’m going to come in tomorrow with the paperwork for the insurance stuff. Is Patrick gonna be around?”

“Opening, I think? But I’m pretty sure if you just call Benefits they can get it taken care of,” Nate says, shrugging as well. “I dunno. I can’t remember how Jack and Andrew handled all of it. Want me to ask?”

“It’s cool,” Spencer says, reaching over the counter divide to grab a cup and press it to the water spigot. “I can call. I’m making a fucking _list_ of all the shit I’m going to get Brendon to tell the doctors when we go. It’s going to be awesome.”

“So is his last name Smith now, or is your last name Urie?” Nate muses, scratching a hand through his hair. “You’re not doing any hyphenated bullshit, are you?”

“Huh?” Spencer blinks at him, caught totally off-guard. “Oh, um. I dunno. I guess we’re just keeping our own names.” He takes a sip of his water.

“That’s good. I thought Andy and Jack were going to call it off, with the fights they got into.”

“Yeah, pretty much want to avoid any of that.”

“Brendon Smith. Spencer Urie. Brendon Smith-Urie,” Nate whispers to himself, frowning a little in concentration. He scrubs the espresso wand, mouthing over words, the potential combinations thereof.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” Spencer tells him, backing up towards the table, watching Nate get thoroughly lost in his own head.

 

Jon shows up forty five minutes later with a bouquet of flowers that he presents with a flourish to Spencer, a tiny grocery store sheet cake with CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR TAX CREDITS written on it in wobbly icing letters, and his DSLR, which he immediately whips out, taking pictures of “the most amazing wedding reception _ever_ , kids.” He and Nate both squawk when he asks to see the rings and Brendon and Spencer both give him blank looks. Ryan chokes on his laughter, and on a piece of the free scones Nate insists on passing out. (“We’re starting new wedding rituals! Fuck tradition! Wedding scones are where it’s at! Also they’re a couple of days old and we can’t sell them.”)

When Van Vleet and Tomrad finally show up (at two-motherfucking-forty-five. Spencer called it; Ryan and Brendon both owe him five bucks), it takes a good fifteen minutes to explain the cake and the flowers, because Tom is hungover as fuck and Van Vleet refuses to take off his earmuffs since they’re just going back out into the cold in a couple of minutes anyway. Eventually, though, they manage. They get the Red Line (Jon has to handle Tom’s CTA pass, and basically shove him through a turnstile when it flashes the green light) up to Belmont, and then they hop around in the cold for a few minutes, waiting on the 77 bus.

Twenty minutes later, they’re at Kuma’s, shucking off coats and hats and scarves, piling into a booth. Tom’s woken up a little, enough to give Spencer and Brendon hell while shoved onto the booth bench with them. “Which one of you wore the dress?” he smirks, unwrapping a straw and shoving it into his iced tea. 

“Fuck off, Conrad,” Brendon says genially, looking over the menu. 

“They both did,” Ryan says, from the other side of the table. “They took turns.” Tom turns to give Spencer an expectant look, and Spencer sighs and punches him in the arm. Van Vleet heads over to the bar to talk to some guy tending the bar that he hasn’t seen in a while. Tom orders for him. Brendon orders a burger “the size of my head.” Ryan, who’s had his lips pursed up in careful inspection of the menu since they sat down, looks up and says, determined, that he’ll have the Slayer.

This is the only part of their shenanigans that has gotten anything like a rise from the waitstaff. The burly guy taking their order double-takes, and raises both eyebrows at him. “That’s a lot of burger,” he says, noncommittally.

Ryan stares back. “I got a hollow leg,” he says back, completely flat. Jon dissolves into giggles beside him, after the waiter leaves. Tom snorts, and gives Ryan an appreciative grin, and Spencer stretches his arm across the back of the bench, tapping his fingertips against Brendon’s shoulder idly.

They eat. Ryan’s burger is roughly the size of a hubcap, on a mountain made of fries, and Ryan gazes down at it, challenging, for a few minutes before he snaps a napkin into his lap and goes to town. It’s actually pretty fucking impressive - the guy who took their orders comes by about fifteen minutes in to check on their progress, and then he starts coming by more often, just to check out the skinny motherfucker dominating the fuck out of their baddest burger.

It’s basically like any other day, except for how they have a marriage certificate folded up and carefully slotted into the back pocket of Spencer’s messenger bag, and except for how now he and Brendon have a weird need to keep some form of contact - even while they’re eating, Brendon has an ankle hooked around Spencer’s, and Spencer’s arm is resting more on Brendon’s shoulders than on the back of the bench. 

It’s not _bad_ , Spencer’s quick to clarify to himself. It’s just different.

Jon takes a million more pictures of all of them, concentrating heavily on Brendon and Spencer, determined to get a “wedding picture” of them where Brendon isn’t making a stupid face. After a while, Tom gently takes the camera away from him, and starts unobtrusively snapping photos, pausing to smile wistfully at a few of them. He takes one of Ryan’s decimated burger, and of Brendon’s hands as he gestures while he talks, and a fucking embarrassing one of Spencer having to help Brendon button up his coat, since Brendon’s holding onto the bench and the table when they’re leaving, to prop himself up. 

Eventually, Tom and Sean and Jon have to leave for band practice and for work. So Ryan and Spencer and Brendon look around on Belmont for a little bit, before they realize there’s fuckall there to see. 

They wind up getting the 52 back home, because Spencer has a couple of books he really should be reading, and Brendon’s limp is starting to get pretty noticeable, and Ryan’s starting to complain about his aching skeleton. Ryan flumps onto the couch when they get home, and Spencer doesn’t immediately let Brendon down from his piggyback ride; he holds onto his legs a little tighter and makes sure to deposit him onto their one good chair.

He heads into the bathroom for ibuprofen for Brendon and half a bottle of Tums for Ryan, coming back into the living room and doling out Brendon’s pills. He sets the Tums on the table beside Ryan’s head, and goes to get Brendon some water. He is a good fucking husband.

“These taste like chalk,” Ryan calls after him, after a handful of seconds. “Chalk and oranges, what the fuck.”

“Ooh, I want one,” Brendon says, reaching over to where Ryan’s sprawled on the couch. “Hey.” He grabs for Ryan’s socks. “Hey.”

“Get your own,” Ryan says, kicking idly. “These are my chalk oranges. I earned them. You saw the size of that burger.”

“Ryan, give Brendon a fucking Tums, god,” Spencer grumbles as he comes back in the room. He presses the glass of water into Brendon’s hand, and flops down onto the beanbag chair in front of the TV. He kicks it on, his toe expertly hitting the Power button (they haven’t had a remote control since two weeks into the semester, after Ryan and Brendon had an epic slapfight over whether or not to watch the Simpsons or Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman), and the screen kicks into life halfway through an episode of Project Runway.

“Aw, god,” Brendon groans, collecting his Tums from Ryan and crunching on it. “Do we have to?”

“Shut up, I haven’t seen how this one ends,” Ryan says, instantly enthralled. 

“Tim Gunn owns everything, Nina Garcia is a bitch with bad opinions, and they send home whoever didn’t phone it in with a drape gown. There, you’re caught up,” Spencer drawls, letting his head fall back with a _thunk_ against the back of the chair. 

“When did you get so cynical?” Ryan sighs up at the ceiling. Spencer doesn’t deign to answer him; he just closes his eyes and feels his limbs go heavy - he’s been running on adrenalin, caffeine, and matrimony for most of the day. He’s pretty sure he hears Brendon and Ryan bickering over his head, but for the next couple of hours, Spencer can’t summon even the tiniest of fucks to give about whatever they’re arguing over. Instead, he falls asleep.

 

When he wakes up, he’s covered with a blanket and he’s alone in the darkened living room. He lifts his head, and groans at how fucking sore his neck is, _fuck_ beanbag chairs, and strains to hear anything else in the apartment with him.

Music, coming from the back near the bedrooms. It sounds like fucking She & Him, so he immediately suspects Ryan and his terrible taste in everything. And there’s the sound of water running in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and exhales, and then grunts as he scrabbles for traction, the bean bag chair threatening not to give him up.

He pads into the kitchen, and sure enough, Brendon is puttering around, boiling a pot of pasta and cutting up a handful of mushrooms to throw into his jar of tomato sauce. “What time is it?” Spencer asks, voice raspy with sleep.

“About seven,” Brendon replies easily, shrugging a shoulder as he dumps the mushrooms into a pan. They start to sizzle. “You want some spaghetti?”

“Nah, leftover burger,” Spencer says, gesturing towards the fridge. “Unless you’re going to do the peppers and onions and sausage thing in the sauce.” Spencer’s usually the first one to say that Brendon in a kitchen is like a really apologetic bull in a china shop, but _fuck_ , that pasta sauce is like crack.

“I was thinking about it,” Brendon says, the corners of his lips curling up. Spencer fistpumps. 

“Best husband _ever_ ,” he crows, before opening the fridge to grab a Coke. He gets another one for Brendon, and pops it open, setting it beside him on the counter. “Want help?”

“Hnh. Get the pepper and sausage out of the fridge?” Brendon suggests, quickly slicing up half of an onion and throwing it in with the mushrooms. Spencer dives back into the fridge and produces Brendon’s ingredients, setting them down on the counter, giving his shoulder a squeeze after.

He grabs a cutting board and takes care of the pepper while Brendon messes with the stuff in the pan, selecting canisters from their meager spice supply and throwing pinches of things in with the vegetables. Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes and dumps the pepper chunks into the pan, hip-checking Brendon lightly as he moves over toward the sink. Brendon doesn’t respond; he just moves over, his shoulders hitching up a little, as he wipes his face with his sleeve. “B?” Spencer murmurs, suddenly worried.

Brendon turns to face him, and gives him a sheepish little smile. “Onion,” he says, gesturing to his red eyes. Spencer bites his lip, and doesn’t really believe him. He comes over to the stove too, watching Brendon stir the contents of the pan idly, take sips of his Coke. After a few minutes, Brendon tips in the jar of tomato sauce, and puts the setting on the stove back down to simmer.

“Smells good,” Spencer says, reaching his hand up to cup Brendon’s elbow lightly. Brendon exhales, and nods.

“Thanks.”

Spencer waits.

After another minute or two, Brendon gives a funny little shake of his shoulders, and leans back against Spencer a tiny bit, still staring down at the pan. “When Kara got married,” he says, his voice sort of far-away sounding, “everybody came back into town. The whole house was crammed so full, but it was - it was _good_. Everybody was happy, that whole four days.” He pauses, and Spencer can see his shoulders tightening up. “God, they had the worst fucking reception, it looked like a middle school dance.”

Spencer swallows, and feels kind of like he’s drowning. “...We went to Kuma’s,” he offers, his voice way too wavery. “Sean got us those drinks for free.”

There’s a small pause, and then Brendon snorts. “Kuma’s is nothing like a middle school dance,” he agrees, stirring the contents of the pan again. 

“Damn straight,” Spencer nods, feeling more stable. He shuffles over a little, though, and slides an arm around Brendon’s back, hugging him in for a bit. “And Jon took our picture. And Ryan ate an entire cow.”

Brendon snickers again, and his shoulders shake a little from laughter. “Clearly, our wedding is the superior wedding,” he murmurs, turning to give Spencer a smile that manages to last almost an entire second before Brendon’s eyes go red and his chin gets wobbly and he ducks his head, fast. “Shit.”

“B,” Spencer breathes, swallowing against a reflexive tightening in his own throat as he tugs Brendon into an actual hug, squeezing him tight. “Hey.”

“Fuck,” Brendon says, choking on the word a little. “Look, just - shit, I’ll be fine in a second. Hang on.”

“You’re fine,” Spencer assures him, rubbing across his back. “It’s totally fine.”

“Just another fucking thing I can’t tell them, another fucking thing they don’t wanna know about me,” Brendon mutters. “And my dad fucking - fucking gave a _toast_ at Kara’s _prom wedding_ and I can’t - oh shit.” He tucks his face against Spencer’s shoulder and shakes.

Spencer worries at his lip and reaches down to shut the stove off, then tucks Brendon in tight against him, one hand cupping up at the back of his neck. “He probably wouldn’t have the vocabulary to give a Kuma’s-appropriate toast,” he points out gently, trying to make Brendon laugh a little. “And I don’t think they sell O’Douls.”

Brendon huffs, and fists his hands in the back of Spencer’s shirt. “Probably not. Fucker. He’d be too scared to even come in, and you’re fucking - god, Spence, you’ve been taking better care of me than they have since - and they probably wouldn’t even _come_ , if I said - “

“Hey,” Spencer interrupts, pulling back just enough to look down at him. Brendon’s eyes are red, and wet, and his mouth is equal parts angry and sad. “Look, it’s their loss. Those are the best burgers in the city. Right?”

Brendon nods, and wipes his eyes on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Yeah,” he mutters.

“Damn straight. They don’t stop being the best fucking burgers just because your parents don’t like where they have to go to get them.” _Damn_ , Spencer is good.

Brendon sighs, and then thinks about it for a second, and snorts, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “Fucking - what the hell, Smith, using literary allusions at me. Who do you think you are? Ryan?”

“I can hear you,” Ryan calls, from the smaller bedroom. Spencer and Brendon smirk at each other, and then there’s a loud crash from the room, and they both startle, taking a couple of steps towards the hallway. 

“Are you dead?”

“No,” Ryan yells, sounding deeply annoyed. “Fucking tipped over the vinyl. Fuck.”

Brendon hisses in a breath in sympathy, but alarm bells have immediately started ringing in Spencer’s brain. “Ryan,” he says calmly, “why is your vinyl in my bedroom? It’s not the end of the month yet.”

Ryan pokes his head out the door, and glares. His hair is standing up almost vertically in some places. “I’m not fucking sleeping on the couch! You guys just got married today. You can share the big room.” And then he pulls his head back into the room and groans something about all of the records having been alphabetized.

Spencer’s frozen for the next couple of seconds, trying to process this. Then he notices, at the worst possible moment, that he’s still basically _cuddling_ Brendon from his freakout a few minutes ago. His hand is still in Brendon’s _hair_. “Oh, um.”

Brendon stares back up at him, looking equally nonplussed. Then, he breaks into a genuine grin. “Dibs on being the big spoon, and if you snore, I’ll kick you,” he tells Spencer matter-of-factly, squeezing his arms around Spencer’s middle for a second before gently detaching and turning the stove back on. 

Spencer blinks at him, feeling the fuzziness of an epic freakout at the edges of his mind, but then Brendon reaches out and tugs Spencer forward, holding a spoon out at him and demanding that he taste the sauce and tell him, really _tell_ him how it is.

 

The bigger of the two bedrooms has the full-size bed, and Spencer’s practice pad, and a wardrobe that houses underwear and socks and t-shirts. They each got to put up one big poster on the walls - Ryan’s contribution is the Beatles’ Abbey Road poster, with the crosswalk; Brendon’s is a poster of a Janis Joplin show; and Spencer’s is a huge poster of Animal behind a drum set. Other than the big huge tapestry-style down comforter on the bed, the room is pretty spartan.

That makes it more difficult for Spencer to find any sort of distraction, while he and Brendon are half-assedly puttering around, getting ready for bed. In the little room, Ryan’s already passed out on top of a pile of vinyl on the mattress (Spencer dragged a couple of blankets over him). Spencer can hear the sound of water running in the bathroom, and then the sound of Brendon brushing his teeth. He quickly shucks off his jeans and hoodie and rummages around in the wardrobe for a pair of pyjama pants, pulling them on before he drifts over to brush his teeth as well.

Brendon gives him an alarming, toothpaste-foamy smile, and spits in the sink, handing Spencer his toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste over, before he takes out his contacts and applies astringent and shuffles off towards their bedroom.

Spencer watches him go, curious, as he brushes his teeth. When he’s done, he washes his face and, since Ryan’s already unconscious and therefore not around to give him shit for it, he moisturizes and spends way too long inspecting his face for upcoming zits. He even debates flossing, but he figures that’s pretty much overkill and what the fuck, it’s not some even-more-deadly strain of ebola in his bedroom, it’s _Brendon_. So he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen and heads to bed, himself.

The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the bedside table, and Brendon’s already a curled-up lump on the far side of the bed. Spencer feels a weird rush of affection, for Brendon remembering how he likes to be closest to the one little window in the room, and he tries to be super quiet as he shuffles around, toeing off his socks and throwing them in the clothes hamper.

He stumbles a little as he turns off the lamp, and stubs his toe on the side of the bed, and sucks in a breath. He can hear Brendon roll over. “Spence? Y’okay?”

“Yeah, just stubbed my toe,” Spencer says, his voice tight with pain and irritation. “Fucking _ow_ , man.”

“Good job,” Brendon says, his voice cracking on a yawn, and he fidgets, apparently trying to give Spencer more of the comforter as he slides between the sheets. “D’you have enough of the blankets?” he asks, his words slow and kind of slurred with tiredness.

“Mhm,” Spencer nods, closing his eyes in relief as his head hits his pillow. Then he opens them again. “How’s your ankle? Do you need some Advil?”

“M’good,” Brendon sighs, wriggling a little closer to him, pressing in until Spencer can feel Brendon’s arm and shoulder against him. “Thanks. ...Did you do your reading?”

“Huh?” Spencer has to think for a second, before he remembers talking about the required holiday reading he hasn’t even started yet. “Nah. I can do some of it tomorrow on my breaks,” he mumbles, and it’s weird, hearing his own voice go thick and low as his eyelids get heavier. “M’gonna call the benefits people tomorrow during lunch and find out when we can get your leg checked out. Sound good?” he tells Brendon, who sighs audibily, and drops his head against Spencer’s shoulder, nodding a little.

It’s...fucking comfortable, actually. He and Brendon have always slotted together pretty easily, but Spencer was really planning on more awkwardness than this. He supposes it’s a good thing that they’re both so worn out already, but having Brendon there beside him in that new context isn’t weird or oppressively hot (temperature-wise only). Brendon smells like toothpaste and shampoo, and he’s pressed all up against Spencer’s side, and he’s got an arm thrown around Spencer’s middle. 

Spence sighs and stretches, and carefully threads an arm under Brendon’s pillow, redistributing their weight a little. Brendon rolls into it, and Spencer can feel his breath, damp and warm, against the collar of his own t-shirt. “Thought you said you were going to be big spoon,” he yawns, stretching his legs one more time. 

“Tomorrow,” Brendon promises, his fingers flexing against Spencer’s side. “All the big spooning. Biggest spoon ever.”

“‘Kay,” Spencer sighs, reaching down to make sure they’re both covered up, up to their shoulders. “Night, B,” he says, cuddling him in a little tighter, kissing the top of his hair.

“Mmh, night, Spence,” Brendon replies, wriggling happily for a few seconds, before the two of them settle into sleep.

 

The next morning when Spencer wakes up, he finds that the two of them curled around each other, their hands linked on Brendon's stomach. Spencer has to get up at ass o'clock because he has a morning shift, and it's even more difficult than usual to drag himself out of the cocoon of blankets and warmth when Brendon's snuffling irritably at being jostled. Spencer rubs a tired hand through his hair as he stands and gets his bearings, and watches Brendon roll over into what had been his spot, before he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling and shambles off to the shower.

He barely remembers to bring his books with him, on the bus. When he gets to his Starbucks, he's actually about ten minutes early, but the line is already out the door, so he tugs on his apron and clocks in early and downs the couple of espresso shots Nate feeds him, and wordlessly inserts himself onto hot bar, pumping syrup and pouring shots and knocking shoulders with him comfortably.

He shouts out drinks, and tosses breakfast sandwiches to his regulars, and commiserates with Patrick about the tragic scarf choices of various customers, and is Brendon's husband. He sneaks half a cigarette with Mikeyway in the alley while they're supposed to be taking out the trash, and is Brendon's husband. He uses the spoons from the steaming pitchers to pound out a beat on the steel countertops of the hot bar while Gabe “freestyles,” and cries from laughter, and is Brendon’s husband.

When he gets his first ten-minute break, he hides in the back with the less-boring book choice he brought, and checks his phone.

_hey hubby Frank says to tell you congrats and Dallon says we should have a smug marrieds club and I said maybe. Hope works okay ill be home late got TWO LESSONS!!!! today_

Spencer can't stop the grin that threatens to crack his face, and he quickly thumbs back _fuck no re “hubby” tell frank thx tell dallon conditional yes, condition: eggs and bacon at mtgs. 2 lessons fuck yes! be careful dont hurt yr ankle see you 2night._

_hubs ball n chain old man better half you choose_

_better half. r there spaghetti leftovers?_

_sooooo surprised & yes there are okay have to go look busy_

_good luck from yr better half_

And then Spencer's break is over and he hasn't done any reading. 

During his lunch break, Spencer goes ahead and adds Brendon to his health insurance, finds out that basically Brendon’s good to go as far as doctors’ visits are concerned as soon as the very next day. Spencer does a little dance in the back room, and immediately starts composing a list on a flattened cup, of all the shit he’s going to make Brendon check up on:

Brendon is an idiot who falls into duck ponds   
_a list, by Spencer J. Smith_

1\. doc for checkup  
\- cough in the winter  
\- fucking ankle  
\- knee weirdness from the car incident  
\- allergies?  
2\. dentist  
3\. eye doctor  
\- new glasses?

The girl at the Benefits Contact Center is weirdly excited when he adds Brendon onto his plan, and asks him a couple of questions about how long he and his husband have known each other, and what it was like, the city hall marriage. She coos at his answers, and the whole thing is pretty weird, but then she tells him he’s set to go and congratulates him, so he shrugs it off.

The afternoon lull hits pretty much as soon as he gets back on the floor, so Spencer does actually get some of his reading done. He gets stuck with cleaning the table legs and bottoms and taking out the trash, again, but Mikeyway does the dusting for him.

And then his shift is over. He packs up his books and gets the Red Line, because seriously _fuck_ the Fullerton bus, and finds himself listening to Simon  & Garfunkel, because his ipod’s shuffle is motherfucking prescient sometimes. 

He’s humming along with “Cecilia” when he ducks into Tecalitlan, and almost finishes out the “best of” album he’s been listening to, by the time his bag of tacos and torta is ready to go. As he heads down the last bit of Chicago, he sucks in a couple of deep breaths of stinging cold air, and rummages in his bag for his lip balm.

He’s still looking when he shoves the door to Permanent Records open with his hip; finally he shoves a pair of socks (seriously? _socks_?) out of the way and closes his hand around the tube and brandishes it triumphantly at the guy behind the counter. Today, it happens to be Frank.

“Keys?” Frank asks, barely looking up from his book.

“Chapstick,” Spencer tells him, slicking it on and sticking it in a coat pocket, for safekeeping. “Hey.”

“Hey. Loverboy’s in the back with a kid, but he should be done soon,” Frank tells him, finally tearing himself away from the book and shoving a guitar pick in to save his place. He looks up at Spencer, and gives him a wide, cheesy grin. “Look at you, being a cute newlywed,” he says, making grabby hands at Spencer’s bag of food.

“It has animals in it,” Spencer warns him, though he does deposit the bag onto the counter. Frank pouts, but then does a search for chips and crows when he finds them, snagging a few and shoving them into his mouth. “Also shut up.”

Frank looks injured and put-upon, and crunches on a chip. “God, twenty-four hours of married life and you’re already an asshole. Brendon sure is a lucky guy.”

Spencer’s brought up short at that, mostly because of the sharp sting that accompanies Frank’s jab, because what if he _is_ an asshole? What if he turns out to be a really shitty husband and has to, like, swear himself to a life of solitude after all of this is done? He makes a face and unwinds his scarf from around his head, and shucks his backpack off, leaning over to throw it behind the counter. He’s unbuttoned his coat, and is just starting to look over the new merch, when he hears Brendon’s voice coming in from the back.

“ - practicing, and it’ll - don’t look at me like that, I know it’s a bitch - um, I mean it’s hard,” Brendon stumbles, “but do you want to be a rock star or do you want to be an accountant?” He puts his hands on his hips. Spencer hides his smile behind his hand and watches.

The kid following behind him huffs, but shoulders her bass and looks determined. “Rock star.”

“Damn right you do,” Brendon agrees, giving her a disarmingly sweet smile. “You’re doing good. Keep it up.”

She smiles back, and salutes, and heads towards the door, waving bye to Frank as she goes. Brendon watches her, still grinning a little, and then shakes his head and glances over towards the counter. Spencer’s a little gratified by the way Brendon startles and then _beams_ at him, and hop-skips over happily. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself,” Spencer says, rescuing the bag of food from where Frank is still pawing at it, and pushing it over to Brendon. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

“I had some juice,” Brendon retorts, already going through the bag, digging out a taco and shoving half of it into his face at one time, groaning pornographically. Spencer rolls his eyes, and refrains from looking over at Frank, who’s watching the two of them and looking way too amused. “Oh my god. Spence.”

“I didn’t bring you a drink,” Spencer warns him. Brendon waves his hand expansively, and takes another bite of taco. Spencer carefully extracts his own torta from the bag and starts unwrapping it, looking around nervously at the handful of other patrons, certain he’s going to get Brendon fucking fired for this.

“I have a drink in the back, it’s cool,” Brendon assures him. “And stop looking like we’re going to get arrested, I told you, nobody cares.”

“It’s true,” Frank pipes up. “Nobody cares. Unless this is going to turn into a _thing_ in which case I will only not care if you bring me chips and salsa every day, too.”

“This husband is my husband,” Brendon tells him loftily, taking a step closer to Spencer, holding his taco protectively to his chest. “Get your own.”

Frank snorts, and is prevented from replying by a pair of guys in skinny jeans and flannel and ironic glasses presenting equally ironic vinyl choices at the register. Brendon finishes his taco, and Spencer picks at his torta, biting back a grin as one of the guys starts talking about how now all they need is a turntable. Frank looks murderous, all of a sudden. It’s pretty great.

“I need a smoke,” Frank growls, as soon as the guys have left. “Will you watch the register?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brendon says, waving him away, smirking a little as Frank storms off. He grabs another taco, and hops up onto the counter and slides behind it, gesturing for Spencer to join him. Spencer looks around again, for someone who looks like they might want to _tell on him_ , and then shrugs a shoulder and joins Brendon behind the counter. He takes a bite of his torta, and chews thoughtfully.

“How was your lesson?” he asks, after he swallows.

“Pretty good,” Brendon says, fiddling with the receipt books and printer paper on the shelves underneath the register. “How was the land of coffee?”

“Coffee-tastic,” Spencer drawls, looking at the floor around him and then dropping down onto it, folding his legs up underneath him and reaching for his bag. He pulls his book out, and flaps it between them. “Three chapters done.”

“You’re so smart,” Brendon says dutifully, swiping somebody’s card as they pay for a CD, darting a glance down at him and grinning. “Smart and tall.”

“You know it,” Spencer says, leaning back against the wall and opening the book back to his stopping place. “Is it okay if I hang here until you get off? We can walk back. I think Ryan said he was getting back from the library at around nine.”

Brendon pauses, and looks down at him, his smile going weird and soft. “You brought me tacos and want to walk me home.”

Spencer’s cheeks go hot in the space of about three seconds, because yeah, he realizes suddenly, that is _exactly_ what he wants to do. “Shut up,” he mutters, ducking his head to look at his book. The hand in his hair a few heartbeats later makes him want to close his eyes.

“Walk me home, Spence?”

He sighs, and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Spencer hangs out behind the counter there, sitting on the floor, reading his book. He texts Ryan a few times. Jon tags him in a bunch of Facebook photos in an album called “Metal Reception,” but there’s nothing incriminating him or Brendon as the intended targets of any receptions, so he figures he’s safe from his mom’s wrath (he can’t believe his mom is on Facebook). He makes notes in the margins of his book, and waits for Brendon to be done with his second lesson of the day, and a little after dinner time, he helps Brendon pack up his stuff and button his second glove and they head out the door, waving goodbye to Frank.

It’s a mile and a half home from the store, give or take, but Spencer isn’t about to risk walking the entire thing, not with the blasting wind and Brendon’s ankle still being fucked up. He badgers Brendon onto the 66 and, when B can’t find his pass, Spencer sighs and feeds quarters into the machine.

They can’t find seats, of course, so Brendon curls up against Spencer and slides an arm across his middle, keeping him anchored as he holds onto the back of a bench. Spencer produces his ipod and offers Brendon one of the earbuds, and hits shuffle. Brendon bites his lip to hold back giggles as the Beastie Boys scream about getting no sleep til Brooklyn, and then Spencer tries not to let heat seep into his cheeks as the next song switches on and Liz Phair starts singing about wanting to be someone’s blowjob queen. Brendon, who is a dick, starts humming along with the high part. Spencer can feel Brendon’s chest vibrating with the notes, against his.

They get off at Sacramento and start shuffling towards home, still connected by the earbuds, Brendon’s hip banging into Spencer’s until B reaches down and grabs for his hand. Spencer glances around quickly, looking for anyone on the streets who might give them a hard time. The sparse scattering of people outside only seem interested in hurrying along, trying to get out of the wind as fast as possible, so he figures he’s worrying for nothing. Again. He squeezes Brendon’s hand, and unlocks the door for them when they get home, and huffs when Brendon just shimmies out of his coat and leaves it in a heap in the little foyer. Brendon turns to give him a smirk, and goes to fall face-first onto the couch.

They make dinner, and then Ryan comes home, and Ryan and Brendon argue about the issue of AP that just came out. Spencer finishes his book while absentmindedly munching on mac and cheese, and then Brendon quizzes him on the content. Ryan does a load of laundry and bitches about his vinyl, until Brendon caves and goes to help him put it all away.

Ryan passes out first, wiped out by a long day of rolling his eyes at people in the library. Spencer washes the dishes while Brendon takes a shower, and then he very carefully rewraps Brendon’s ankle, wincing at how the bruises haven’t faded much. Brendon reassures him that it hardly hurts at all anymore, but Spencer knows better than to believe him; after all, Brendon was totally convinced that his studio apartment in Vegas wasn’t a death trap built on a foundation of lies.

They go to bed. They both whine for the first couple of minutes about how it is _so fucking cold_ , and Brendon eventually reaches for Spencer, cuddling up close and sticking his freezing-cold nose against Spencer’s neck and snickering at the yelp Spencer gives.

“I want a divorce,” Spencer grumbles, totally cancelling out his words by continuing to rub Brendon’s back idly.

“Think of the children,” Brendon mutters sleepily. “Think of poor Ryan.”

“That’s okay, I won’t contest custody,” Spencer yawns, smirking a little and squirming as Brendon pinches his side. 

“Where’d the magic go, Smith. Where.”

“You don’t bring me flowers anymore,” Spencer sighs, sinking in against him. Brendon’s soft laughter is the last thing he hears before he drops off.

 

Two days later, Brendon stops by Spencer’s Starbucks with a grocery store bouquet of carnations. The cafe is _packed_ , but that doesn’t stop Gabe from squawking as soon as he sees the flowers and calling a halt to everyfuckingthing happening in the store, until he finds an appropriate glass and fills it with water and sticks the bouquet on top of Spencer’s espresso machine. “Okay, go,” he tells, waving his hands at Spencer and Gerard and the customers, who are still staring dumbfounded at him, and after a few seconds, the steady hum of conversations and orders returns.

Spencer can’t stop giggling. He gets Brendon a drink (Gerard coos at the ridiculously over-the-top caramel heart he drizzles on top of the foam, but Spencer knows Brendon will appreciate it for what it is) and Brendon hangs out in the lobby until Patrick sends him on a break. They both pile into the only available chair, one of the plush highback orange ones, halfway on each other’s laps as Brendon tells Spencer about Julie, the kid with the bass, and how she’s basically a genius. From the way Gerard keeps looking over at them, he’s pretty sure they’re being memorized for use in some project later on, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Brendon’s flapping his hands around and beaming at him.

“She’s just so fucking _determined_ , Spence, it’s awesome,” Brendon gushes, taking another sip of his drink and handing it over to him so he can gesture more emphatically. “Though if she keeps it up she’s gonna be better than me in like three months and then I’ll have to hand her off to Rubano,” he sighs. “And then I’ll have to kill him in his sleep.”

“I’m not visiting you in jail,” Spencer tells him quickly. “No murdering.”

“You would too visit me,” Brendon says, tilting his chin. “Don’t front.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at that pathetic attempt at slang, and Brendon bites his lip and looks sheepish. “...I might,” he concedes, finally. “Just to laugh at you. From behind plate glass.”

“We’d probably get conjugal visits,” Brendon points out, giggling a little as Spencer goes red and starts to dig his knuckles in between Brendon’s ribs. “Ow! Hey!” They both ignore Gerard’s shrill little _awwwwww_ behind the counter, and Brendon finally pins Spencer’s hand, laughing in his face.

“I am going to dump this lovingly handcrafted beverage in your lap,” Spencer tells him calmly. 

“You’ll have to tell the doctors about how you burned my dick,” Brendon points out, just as calm. Spencer huffs and takes a sip of the drink as he tries to think of a retort.

There’s a pause while Brendon just grins victoriously.

“...Now kiss!” Gerard hisses, his eyes widening in the next second, shocked at himself. Spencer chokes a little, his chest tight with trying to contain the hysterical laughter that wants to bubble out of him, especially when he hears Gabe’s echoing “Do it!” a few seconds later, from farther down the counter.

He risks a glance at Brendon, to see how he’s taking the sexual harassment, and feels the laughter in his chest dissipate - Brendon’s just grinning at him, a little crookedly. And then B arches an eyebrow, the smile curling into something not entirely safe.

“What, really?” Spencer hears himself asking, before Brendon nods and ducks down near him, tucking himself closer into Spencer’s side as he cups Spence’s chin and pulls him into a kiss, warm and sweet and tasting a little like caramel.

A couple of seconds go by, and Spencer’s aware that he’s clutching the arm of the chair, his other hand still pinned in Brendon’s. He has a hazy thought that he should really be participating _more_ in this somehow, but then Brendon opens his mouth, just a little, and his brain goes fucking blank. Spencer shivers, and Brendon exhales, makes this little approving noise, and then they’re both pulling away, sort of reluctantly, their foreheads still almost touching as they can’t quite reach each other’s eyes.

Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths, and unconsciously licks his lips, and when he finally manages to look up, Brendon’s staring at him, looking a little gobsmacked. Beyond Brendon, Gerard is fucking _beaming_ at them, pressing a hand to his chest (it’s got a wet rag in it and is getting his apron soaked), and Gabe is...looking a bit wistful, for just a second, before the lost look in his eyes disappears. He quickly turns and holds out his hand to Nate, who’s just come in for his shift and is looking ready to kill. Nate quickly slaps a twenty in Gabe’s hand. “Go do dishes, Saporta,” he snarls. “And if you overflow the sinks again, they’ll never find your body.”

“Baby, the things you say,” Gabe croons at him, blowing kisses to Spencer and Brendon as he ducks into the back.

Spencer feels Brendon take a deep, lung-rattling breath and exhale it slowly, and it’s an automatic response, to rub his back through it. “Okay?” he asks, feeling kind of stupid.

“Yeah,” Brendon nods, twisting to stretch his legs. “Your break’s almost over, isn’t it?” he asks, sounding kind of regretful.

“It was about five minutes ago,” Spencer tells him, truthful. He bites his lip. “Thank you for the flowers.”

“Welcome,” Brendon sighs, struggling against the chair for a bit before managing to stand. He stretches, and then reaches down to give Spencer a hand up as well. They stand there, looking awkward at each other for a moment.

“Back to work, Spence,” Nate calls from the registers, and Spencer nods and runs his fingers through his hair. Brendon smiles and shoos him back towards the counter and pulls on his coat. Spencer kind of wants to fix Brendon’s hair, it got sort of fucked up and static-y from the chair.

He goes back to the bar and tries to concentrate on setting up the line of drinks that have accumulated (Gerard, bless his heart, isn’t the fastest at making drinks). He hears Brendon yell “Thanks, guys!” as he heads towards the door, and he hears Nate shout back “I don’t want to hear it, Urie, if this had happened back at Thanksgiving, Gabe would’ve been paying _me_!” and jesus, he is just _never going to stop blushing_.

Gerard knocks his shoulder and beams at him some more. “I put your flowers in the back, they were getting all wilty from the steam,” he whispers, as he pumps mocha into a cup.

“Thanks,” Spencer whispers back, and he pours some two percent into a pitcher and starts to steam it, and tries not to be conspicuous about how he watches Brendon go down the sidewalk until he disappears around the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

He texts Ryan a couple of times during his shift, asking him how reading is going, and if he’s burned down the library yet. Ryan’s responses are bracing in their profanity, and between them and the combined shenanigans of Gabe and Gerard, Spencer is kept pretty distracted from Brendon’s visit.

And then, about fifteen minutes before his shift is scheduled to end, he gets a couple of texts from Brendon:

_im sorry about the kiss and your break going long hope the guys didnt give you too much shit_

_i didn’t mean to get you in trouble. :( sorry spence_

Spencer swallows, and feels oddly hollow inside. He shoots back a quick _its ok_ and then goes to put his phone in the back room, like he was technically supposed to do at the start of his shift. Fifteen minutes later, when he should be clocking out and packing up, he sidles up to Gerard and asks if he’d want to go home early instead, and Spencer could take the last couple hours of his shift.

Gerard blinks at him owlishly, and then narrows his eyes. “What happened?”

“What? Nothing,” Spencer says, way too quickly. He rolls his eyes at himself, rubs his arm. “D’you want to do it or not?”

Gerard’s lips press up into a thin, unamused line as he stares Spencer down. “Well, something happened. Is it because Brendon kissed you?”

Spencer folds his arms, and won’t look at him. He hates it when Gerard does this, pulls this psychic palm reader bullshit on everybody, it’s _creepy_. “I need the money,” he says tightly. “And classes start back next week and I won’t be able to work as much.”

“Whatever,” Gerard scoffs, puttering around, starting to rebrew the Pike. “You just don’t want to deal with your Brendon thing.”

“There is no Brendon thing,” Spencer mutters, pressing the back of his hand to his cheek, trying to cool it off. He pretends not to notice the way Gerard mouths _oh, okay_ at him as a customer comes up, and he waits until she’s been taken care of before he raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

Gerard screws his mouth up again. “I don’t like being party to your willful self-deception,” he informs Spencer, pointing a finger at him, “but I’m really tired of being here. So yes, you can have my hours.”

Spencer nods, all business. “Cool. Just let me go and text people to let them know, and let me tell Nate.” Gerard nods and shoos him off, beaming at a small cluster of rebellious-looking youth that have just deposited themselves in the lobby. 

In the back, Spencer fires off a text to Ryan and Brendon (he waffles for half a minute on including B in the text, but figures it would be a dick move to leave him out and risk the possibility of Brendon worrying): _Gee wanted to go home early so im staying til 10_

He tells Nate, who gives him a look of utter gratitude (Spencer’s the only one who likes doing dishes, and Gerard tends to spill something every half hour), and by the time he gets back to the floor, he has a couple of text messages. 

From Brendon: _ok. be careful_

From Ryan: _poor wageslave. bring me a cookie & white mocha. b’s making bigass hoagie things, best night ever!!!_

Fuck. Spencer rests his head against the back door for a second and curses fate. He fucking loves those bigass hoagies Brendon makes.

 

On the buses home, Spencer manages to score a window seat both times. He leans his forehead against the cool pane, and tries to keep Ryan’s white mocha and Brendon’s java chip frappuccino level on his lap. The motherfucking prescient shuffle has decided to make him listen to the Avett Brothers, which is doing nothing to stop his stomach from twisting and knotting itself up inside him. 

When he gets home, there’s a bigass fucking hoagie in the fridge for him, and Ryan’s still puttering around in his room, awake, so Spencer goes to bug him, sprawling on his bed, still in his coat and shoes, hands and mouth stuffed with sandwich.

“Seriously, it’s like you’re an animal. And not one of the clean ones,” Ryan sniffs, giving him an unimpressed look. “You’re one of the ones that flings its own crap.”

“Those creative writing workshops are really doing you a world of good,” Spencer tells him, with his mouth full.

“Gross, Spence. Gross.” Ryan rolls his eyes, and shoves Spencer’s shoes off his bed, and comes to sprawl with him, propping himself up on the headboard. They both fall silent for a while, Spencer focusing on chewing on his magnificent sandwich, and Ryan focusing on untangling half a dozen of his ridiculous necklaces that have knotted themselves together. “Brendon was really quiet tonight.”

Spencer sighs through his nose, and stares down at his sandwich.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Ryan says, equably. “I’m not going to complain about it, it was a nice change. No T-Rex or Axl Rose impressions.”

Spencer puts down his sandwich long enough to rest his forehead against Ryan’s seriously pointy shoulder. “He came to visit me at work,” he explains, terse and kind of confused as to _why_. “Shit may have gone down.”

“Yeah, I know, Nate texted me.”

“Motherfuck,” Spencer says feelingly, reaching for his sandwich again and taking a huge bite. “Fucking incestuous little overcaffeinated diva tribe.”

“Accurate.”

Spencer halfway finishes his sandwich before he admits defeat, and he heads into the kitchen to wrap up the rest for leftovers. Brendon’s frappuccino is sweating and looking a little gross in the fridge, but he figures it’ll still be cold and coffee-ish in the morning, so it might still count as a goodwill gesture. He finally shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up, and sets the pastries he filched from the markout pile in a small stack on their kitchen table. 

The light in their bedroom is turned off, and Spencer doesn’t really want to risk flicking it on and possibly waking Brendon up. So when he opens the door, he just stands there for a second and waits for his eyes to get used to the dark.

And yep, Brendon’s in bed, breathing slow and steady. Spencer edges a little closer to inspect him, and then shuffles as quiet as he can over to the wardrobe, sloooooowly pulling open drawers and tugging out some old, soft t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants. He pulls off his work clothes quickly, efficiently, placing them in the hamper and shuffling back over towards the door. 

He stops, and opens the door enough that the light from the hallway spills farther into the room. It’s easier to see Brendon’s face, the way his mouth is slack with sleep, but his eyebrows are knitted, pained. Spencer clucks his tongue, and pads out to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, grabbing painkillers and a glass of water. He comes back in the bedroom and perches on the edge of the bed, setting the glass of the bedside table and reaching to give Brendon’s shoulder a little shake. “Hey. Hey, Bren,” he whispers, prodding him until Brendon groans softly and opens his eyes. “Hey,” he can’t help saying again. He also can’t seem to help the ridiculous little smile on his face, but that’s neither here nor there.

Brendon stretches and blinks at him sleepily, rolling over onto his back. “Hey,” he replies, smiling a little as well. “You got home. Did you get your sandwich?”

“Yeah, it was awesome,” Spencer assures him, reaching for the glass. “Does your leg hurt?”

Brendon looks down at it, and bites his lip, and gives Spencer a startled, awestruck little look as Spencer hands over the pills and the water. Spencer watches as Brendon swallows them down, and takes the glass away from him, setting it back on the table carefully. “Good?”

Brendon nods, and sinks back down onto his pillow, closing his eyes gratefully. “Sleep soon, okay?”

“I will,” Spencer promises him, and he watches for a few minutes, until Brendon’s face relaxes back into sleep, looking a little less pained than it had before the pills and the water. 

Brendon never really looks entirely peaceful, or childlike, or whatever the hell else people usually say about other people when they’re asleep. He’s too animated, too filled to the brim. Instead, when Brendon sleeps, he looks uncommonly solemn and still, like he’s listening to a conversation that isn’t entirely happy. Spencer’s always found that look too inviting; it’s the only time in his life Brendon looks like he’d be able to keep a secret. It would be really easy, Spencer knows, to curl up there on the bed and come clean about the tiny little hurts and hopes he used to have, until he finally trained himself to ignore them.

Instead of succumbing, though, Spencer watches Brendon’s chest rise and fall with his breaths, and he combs Brendon’s hair away, out of his face, and he leans over to brush his lips against Brendon’s forehead.

Then he gets up and heads into the living room. He’s got another book and three more days of vacation to have it read, after all.

 

Hours later, he barely wakes up enough to register the floor lamp in the living room being clicked off, and his book being tugged out of his hands. He makes a grumbly inquisitive noise but can’t seem to manage anything else, and shifts, stretching his legs as much as he can on the couch, as somebody pulls a thick blanket up over him.

“You’d have more room on the bed,” Brendon whispers to him, tucking the corners of the blanket in. Spencer huffs at the very idea of moving, and hugs the couch pillow a little tighter to himself. “Okay,” Brendon sighs. “Are you warm enough, at least?”

Spencer nods, and wriggles up closer to the back of the couch. He can feel his body going heavier and heavier with sleep, and just before he slides back under, he feels the fleeting press of warm, dry lips against his cheek.

 

That weekend, they fall into a pattern: work, come home, cobble something together for dinner, listen to Ryan make fun of their domesticity, and threaten to withhold food from him. Then they sprawl on the couch in the living room and watch whatever tv show looks most entertaining. 

This is how they sit: stretched out, with Brendon propped up against the corner near the wall, his legs akimbo and a throw pillow shoved against his chest. Spencer leans up against the pillow, his back parallel to Brendon’s chest. His legs are a little too long, still, and sometimes he winds up slipping til he’s almost lying down, just so he can hook his knees over the arm of the couch.

During the commercials, Brendon steals whatever book Spencer has picked up for that night, and reads it aloud, his voice close to Spencer’s ear.

“I didn’t realize mitochondria had English accents,” Spencer tells him, smiling tiredly as Brendon reads about the different parts of an animal cell. 

“You didn’t?” Brendon rests his cheek on the top of Spencer’s head, and Spencer closes his eyes. “It’s a well-documented fact.”

“Oh. Well. In that case,” Spencer yawns, waving his hand for Brendon to continue. 

“Wait for the golgi body,” Brendon tells him, reaching for Spencer’s hand and tucking it back down, threading their fingers together loosely. “Is most exciting part of animal cells,” he says, in a truly atrocious Russian accent, squeezing Spencer’s fingers when he starts snickering. “Most important for your learnings of biology.”

“You sound like Boris and Natasha,” Spencer informs him, tilting his face up until he can see Brendon’s, the white flash of his smile. 

“Great success,” Brendon says solemnly, before his expression cracks and he and Spencer both start laughing quietly. On the other side of the room, Ryan sighs and turns the television off, and types furiously on his laptop for a couple of minutes.

 

On Sunday morning, Spencer wakes up in bed with his hand up the back of Brendon’s shirt and Brendon’s open mouth pressed wet against his neck. It takes him a few seconds to even orient himself to where he is, and then a few more seconds of careful breathing before he feels safe enough to move. He untangles his hand from the fabric of Brendon’s shirt and tries not to focus on how soft and warm the skin under his hand is, and he haltingly manages to pull away, biting his lip _hard_ when Brendon makes an unconscious whining sound and holds onto him tighter for a moment. Brendon mumbles something against his neck, and Spencer’s eyes threaten to roll back into his head, and he finally breaks free and stands there, shivering beside the bed for a second, before he hightails it for the shower.

He turns the water on as hot as he can stand it and tries to distract himself by washing, rinsing, and repeating, but the sense-memory of Brendon’s lips against his neck, along with the quiet mental refrain of _mine, husband, mine_ , are too much to ignore. Spencer tilts his head up into the water, exhaling as his hand slides down to stroke over his dick.

When he comes with a gasp ( _shit_ , he hopes that wasn’t too loud), his knees shake, and Spencer quickly reaches up to grab onto the showerhead so he won’t fall down.

When he wraps the towel around his waist and gets out of the shower a few minutes later, Brendon is staring down at a pan full of sizzling bacon, pink-cheeked and with his hair sticking up everywhere. Spencer has a weird split-second disconnect with reality wherein he really wants to put his hands in Brendon’s hair and push him against the fridge and fucking ravish him, but Spencer shakes himself of it and attempts to blame it on residual orgasm haze. “Morning,” he manages, way too late.

“Hey,” Brendon says, blinking up at him sleepily. “Bacon?” he asks, gesturing to the pan. 

“Yeah, let me get dressed,” Spencer says. Brendon actually blinks his eyes all the way open, and gives him a once-over that leaves Spencer feeling weirdly flattered. Brendon grins, crooked, and shrugs a shoulder, rubbing a hand through his hair as he goes back to poking the bacon.

“You could just put on a work apron,” Brendon suggests. “Then you could help make the eggs, too.”

“I don’t think making breakfast in a towel and a Starbucks apron is really the greatest idea.”

“I respectfully disagree,” Brendon says, giving him a leer, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. Spencer can’t help it, he’s shocked into laughing even as he feels the blush start in his face and work down. 

“Go to hell, Urie,” he mumbles, retreating to the safety of the bedroom. He can hear Brendon call out _Urie-Smith, baby!_ beyond the closed door, and Spencer rubs a hand over his face as he chuckles, and starts pulling on clothes.

Spencer helps make the eggs. Ryan stumbles into the kitchen just in time for eggs and bacon and toast, and he grabs four pieces and shoves them all in his mouth together despite Spencer’s squawks and threats to take a pair of tongs and come after them. “Come at me, bro,” Ryan says, his mouth still full of pig as he leans back in his chair, throws his skinny arms wide and tries to look threatening. Brendon cries into his orange juice, laughing so hard that Spencer pats his back.

“Oh my god, I want that as a ringback tone,” Brendon says, wiping his eyes. “Do it again, Ross.”

“No can do,” Ryan sighs, piling eggs onto his plate, still giving Spencer a suspicious glare. “Lightning in a bottle, that’s what it was.”

“Fuck both of you,” Spencer grumbles, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth.

“Baby, we didn’t talk about opening up the relationship,” Brendon tells him, rapping the back of Spencer’s hand with his fork. Across the table, Ryan groans, and shovels eggs into his face, still grumbling to himself around a distended mouthful of food. Spencer thinks he recognizes the word _bleach_ , but that’s it. 

He finishes getting ready in record time, and even lets Brendon mess around with his hair for a little bit, watching in the bedroom mirror as Brendon fusses and flat-irons bits and generally makes him look like an even girlier version of Michael Way. He lies and says he loves it, when Brendon is done.

Brendon has a short shift and doesn’t have to go into work til the afternoon, and even Ryan has a rare shift at Myopic that day (they schedule him about 12 hours a month and he complains every single minute of it, but he won’t give up the minimal employee discount or the indie cred he gets for working there), so they make plans to go out when they all get off. Brendon promises not to break or sprain anything, and it’s decided that he and Ryan will just come to Spencer’s cafe when they get off, since Spencer’s pulling a 10-hour shift and won’t be out til late.

“You just want to see if Pete shows up,” Spencer snorts, smirking when Ryan pulls a face and flips him off (Ryan’s fanboy crush on Pete Wentz, graffiti artist, well-known slam poet, and part-time professor at DePaul, has been legend ever since he was 16 years old. When he found out Spencer worked for Patrick, _the_ Patrick, Pete’s _Saturday_ Patrick, Ryan didn’t talk to him for a week).

Theoretically, Ryan and Spencer could take the same bus for a minute or two, at least up to North, but whenever they try to catch the same bus, just the two of them, something horrible happens. Twice, Ryan has stepped in puddles. One time, Spencer lost his bus pass. They never manage to get seats together and Ryan hates 75% of the music on Spencer’s ipod, so now they have an unwritten understanding that they will take separate buses to work and school, so as not to upset the delicate balance of the universe.

Spencer usually gives Ryan the head start. He makes sure Ryan’s wearing a scarf and coat and _both_ of his gloves, and assures him - again - that the juxtaposition of paisley scarf and polka dot gloves is obvious enough to be read as ironic and not just sad (personally, he’s not so sure). Spencer suspects that the real reason Ryan won’t give up his joke of a part-time job has more to do with one of the girls who works there, but he has yet to determine which one it is. It’s either the tall brunette with the ironic tattoo or the tall blonde with the tragic hair-feathers. Ryan waves goodbye and disappears up the front steps and Spencer shakes his head, shutting the door tight.

“Those gloves are going to accidentally wind up in the trash pretty soon,” Brendon says, leaning against the doorframe of the foyer, giving Spencer a crooked smile when he turns around. He’s cupping a mug in his hands, still rocking the pyjamas and mussed hair. 

“It’d be a mercy killing,” Spencer agrees, rummaging around in the little closet by the door til he finds the scarf he was looking for, and his ridiculous fingerless gloves. He pulls those on first, and then starts fiddling with the scarf, tugging it a couple of ways before Brendon huffs and comes over to help.

“God help you if you ever have to wear a tie,” Brendon says, tugging the scarf around and around his neck, pulling him forward a little. “Hold still.”

“Stop trying to choke me,” Spencer complains, though he does tilt his chin for easy access as Brendon ties the scarf off, once and then twice, and steps back to inspect his work.

“Yeah, good,” he says, nodding, gesturing for Spencer to tug his peacoat on. Spencer does, and Brendon reaches up to smooth the lapel, and Spencer’s cheeks burn as Brendon does up the buttons for him. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he murmurs, stretching his fingers in his gloves, trying to look anywhere but at the line of Brendon’s jaw, close, as he fusses with Spencer’s coat. He winds up looking at Brendon’s hands instead, which is a terrible mistake - Spencer’s watched Brendon play too many instruments to not know how quickly and precisely and gracefully his hands can move. 

“You don’t look like a toddler,” Brendon assures him, glancing up and giving him a warm, private smile. Spencer swallows, and Brendon takes a step back, and nods decisively. “You look like a very nice boy.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says, his voice kind of hoarse. He doesn’t get much of a chance to recover, either, because Brendon grins up at him and tugs him forward a little, pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek.

“Have a good day at work, honey!” Brendon says cheerfully, giving him a ridiculously cheesy, affectionate smile. And with that, something in Spencer pulls to a snapping point - Brendon’s too close, and he smells like sleep and tea and breakfast, and his hands are deft and beautiful, and according to the state of Illinois, he’s Spencer’s.

Brendon’s eyes go wide when Spencer slides his hands around his waist, and they go even wider when Spencer pushes him back towards the wall. “Spence?” he asks, sounding sort of nervous, his hands automatically coming up to grab onto Spencer’s sleeves, for balance. But Spencer doesn’t give him any more of a chance to protest before he’s got Brendon sandwiched between himself and plaster, and is kissing him soundly.

Brendon’s mouth is warm and wet from the tea, and he’s not being especially quiet after the first few seconds of frozen shock, whimpering into Spencer’s mouth and kissing back like he’s starving for it. “Oh my god, _oh_ ,” Brendon breathes against Spencer’s lips, shaking hard for a minute or two, until Spencer’s a little nervous for him and has to slide an arm around his back, tucking him in close, rubbing a hand along his spine. Brendon sags into it, and drapes his arms across Spencer’s shoulders, making a ragged little pleading noise in the back of his throat.

Spencer shivers and pulls him in tighter, gasping when Brendon slicks his tongue into the corner of his mouth, testing. “Jesus, Bren,” he manages, closing his eyes again as Brendon gets a hand up in his hair and tugs lightly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brendon groans, tilting his head back against the wall, squirming as Spencer lets his mouth slide lazily down to his neck, finding his pulse and sucking at it for a moment. “Oh, my - you have to go to _work_ ,” Brendon says a few seconds later, sounding completely heartbroken. He shudders, and grabs onto Spencer’s shoulder, squeezing it tight as Spence finds a place on his neck that makes him go all tense.“Nnnnnh, don’t go. Stay and make out.”

Spencer snorts, and starts chuckling softly, still tracing his lips down the cord of Brendon’s neck. “What do you pay an hour?” he asks, his mouth still against Brendon’s skin, and it’s immensely gratifying, the shivery groan Brendon gives as he pulls Spencer back up by his hair and kisses him again.

In actuality, they’re probably kissing for two minutes, maybe three. Long enough for them to establish a rhythm, and long enough for Spencer to slide his hand up in Brendon’s hair like he’s wanted. Long enough for Brendon to be fidgeting, grabbing handfuls of Spencer’s coat as he tries to tug him closer, whining when Spencer finally pulls away. “Noooo, no no no,” Brendon complains, tucking his face into the scarf he carefully wound around Spencer’s neck.

“I have to go to _work_ ,” Spencer sighs, his hand sliding down to Brendon’s shoulders, rubbing there, pulling him back a little until he can see the ridiculous pout Brendon is giving him. Spencer can’t help, he grins and kisses his stupid mouth one more time, before pulling away and redoing his coat buttons. 

“This sucks. I’m your husband. I demand you stay home,” Brendon huffs, fluffing Spencer’s scarf back up and retrieving his mug of tea. 

“I’ll be home tonight,” Spencer points out. “You’ll see me before I’m even home, right? At the cafe.” Fuck, he can’t stop _smiling_. He knows he looks like a complete idiot. It doesn’t quite stop him from tugging Brendon back in, pressing a series of quick kisses to his mouth, until Brendon snorts and pulls away.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Brendon agrees, taking another long gulp of tea. Spencer gets the impression that the tea is acting as a sort of making-out cockblock, for both of them, and he decides to go along with it. He will be around long after that tea is gone, after all.

“Yup.” They both smile at each other for another handful of seconds, and, okay, he officially feels like a tool. Spencer grabs his bag off the floor, and slings it over his head and settles it on his shoulder. And because he can’t stop himself, he tugs Brendon in one more time, kissing the tea flavor off of his mouth til Brendon starts giggling and shoves him away. Spencer beams, _stupid_ with happiness, and heads out the front door, letting it clatter behind him, not allowing himself to look back in case he decides Brendon’s demands for him to stay there and make out have suddenly become really good ideas.

He crunches through the couple of inches of snow that have managed to accumulate, and doesn’t even bother waiting to get to the bus stop before rummaging in his bag for his phone. He finds it, eventually, and thumbs in a quick message to Brendon: _NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT SORRY_

He gets a quick series of responses as he’s settling into a seat on the 52 bus: _daaaaaaaaaaaamn boo_  
 _i am official winner at husband-choosing_  
 _be my official date tonight? i will open doors and buy your drinks_

Spencer bites his lip to try to keep from laughing out loud, and he leans his head against the window for a second, considering, before he types in his reply: _never again re “boo” and yes you are and okay but dont expect me to put out_

Not even a minute later: _baby dont tease_

Spencer snorts and can’t really contain the laughter that wants to bubble out of him; he puts his phone away out of fucking necessity, and tugs his ipod out of his pocket, pressing his earbuds in and hitting play. As ever, his ipod is trying to kill him, so he’s not entirely surprised when Journey starts playing in his ears.

 

It’s Sunday, so the cafe vacillates between being completely dead and being so full of fuckheads that Spencer wishes he could just start spraying people with whipped cream. By the time Hour Nine of his interminable day has rolled around, he’s taken to hiding in the back alley with Gabe and sucking on a too-thick smoothie, sulking about how dumb he was for trying to cram in as much work as possible on his break. “There was all the wedding planning to deal with, too,” Gabe points out, coughing out a painful plume of smoke as Spencer elbows him in the ribs. “Hey, ow. Fucking bridezilla.”

“That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” Spencer grouses.

“Your mom,” Saporta counters, taking another drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke in Spencer’s direction. 

“My mom,” Spencer says flatly, raising an eyebrow at him. “My mom doesn’t make sense. That’s what you’re saying.”

Gabe stares at his cigarette for a moment, and then nods his head. “Mhm, mhm. Especially when I’m boning her.”

Spencer blinks at him, and then sighs and shakes his head, and stands up, holding onto the wall as he picks his way back over to the door. “Are you coming tonight?”

Gabe stands and stretches, popping all twenty-seven of his elbows and knees back into place, and shrugs. “Jury’s still out. Plus I owe Van Vleet twenty bucks.”

“Show up an hour and a half late and buy him a drink, then tell him you picked up half his tab the next morning.”

Gabe twists his mouth up and points a finger at him. “Tricky. I like it.” He takes one more drag off his cigarette and holds it, finally exhaling and gesturing like he’s conducting a symphony. “Where’s the carousing taking place?” he asks, as he flicks the butt into a drain.

“California Clipper, most likely,” Spencer tells him, as he’s opening the door. The light from the back room is harsh against the dark of the alley, and he has to squint for a couple of seconds to get his bearings before wandering back inside.

Nate has completely given up even trying to look like he’s doing something, and is perched in one of the squishy chairs, idly thumbing through the NYT magazine from the last Sunday paper. The rest of the paper is spread out on the big table next to him, an unholy mess of print. Brendon’s sitting at the table, sipping from a Starbucks cup and peering at an article in the food section.

Spencer’s stomach does an interesting little flip, and he rubs at his mouth to try to get the sudden smile off of it. “Hey,” he says, venturing out from behind the counter. “When did you get here?”

Brendon looks up, and beams at him, his whole face lighting up with it. “Couple minutes ago,” he says, standing up and grabbing a bag off the table, bringing it over to him. “Pad thai?”

“Oh my god,” Spencer breathes, snatching for the bag and opening it, and halfway wanting to _cry_ for joy at the billowing scent of noodles and peanuts and awesome. “All I’ve had today is half a fucking scone.”

“Hey, don’t hate on those, we had them at our reception,” Brendon quips (behind them, Nate raises a fist of triumph without ever looking up from the page), and he tugs on Spencer’s apron, moving him back towards the table. Spencer’s already pulling out the napkins and plastic utensils and food containers, barely waiting til Brendon’s shoved him into a seat before he pries the top off the pad thai.

“I got tofu because last time we got chicken, Ryan got kinda sick, remember?” Brendon explains quickly, dropping down into the seat beside him. Spencer stares at the food for a second, overcome with joy, before he grabs for Brendon’s scarf and pulls him in for a brief, grateful kiss. 

“It’s awesome,” Spencer assures him, after he’s let go, and he digs his fork into the noodles and shovels a huge bite into his mouth. It isn’t until he’s trying to chew that he realizes both Brendon and Nate are kinda staring at him, and Brendon has turned an interesting shade of pink. “What?” He swallows, and thinks back. _Oh._ “Oh.” He can feel himself start to blush as well. At least he’s not the only one. “...goddammit,” he mutters, into his pad thai.

“Well, I’m just gonna...” Nate says, trailing off as he sets down the magazine and saunters towards the back room. Spencer watches him, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t think we don’t know you’re going back there to text everyone!” he yells.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Nate hollers back.

“What are you guys talking about?” he can hear Gabe yelling from the back room. “I want to be a part of things!” Spencer exhales and hooks his ankle around a leg of Brendon’s chair, and can’t help snickering as, a few seconds later, he hears Gabe squawking “ _Really_?” and Nate trying to shush him.

“Awesome,” Brendon sighs, reaching over to pick a piece of tofu out of the container, popping it into his mouth. Spencer swallows and sets down his fork, suddenly intensely embarrassed at the prospect of Brendon being annoyed at him. A sharp, hot rush of shame slices through him - he doesn’t usually do things like that, he’s really not touchy-feely, not at all.

“Sorry,” he mutters, swallowing again. “I didn’t - sorry.” He sits back and looks at his food, fiddling with the pockets in his apron. Nate’s gonna text everybody, and then they’re going to give him and Brendon hell all night. Great.

The hand on his shoulder startles him, and Spencer jolts in his seat, automatically looking over at Brendon for explanation. B’s looking sort of thoughtful, biting at the corner of his lip, and he quirks one side of his mouth up in a crooked smile as Spencer holds his gaze for a second or two. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah?” Spencer frowns a little, exhaling a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. Brendon’s hand slides up his shoulder, to the back of his neck, and Spencer sighs again, his eyes closing automatically. 

“Yup,” Brendon says, scooting his chair a little closer, reaching for Spencer’s fork and stabbing at his noodles. He tugs on the hair at the back of Spencer’s neck, until he opens his eyes, and then makes airplane noises, becoming louder and more obnoxious and more insistent until Spencer finally gives up and lets him shove the forkful of noodles into his mouth.

“No, we can’t turn into those people,” Spencer protests, still chewing, reaching for his fork and grumbling when Brendon holds it just out of reach. “Brendon. No.” He grabs at Brendon’s side, tickling until he starts squirming.

“No, no tickling!” Brendon squeaks, attempting to stab him in the hand with the fork. “Cut it out!”

“Then stop trying to feed me, douche!” Spencer counters, jabbing his fingers into Brendon’s ribs until Brendon twists and manages to grab his hand. 

“Baby, why do you do these things to hurt me?” Brendon asks, giving Spencer such a hangdog look that he can’t help laughing, even as he keeps trying to grab for the fork. “I’m just trying to keep the spark alive.”

“Fuck, I’m so hungry,” Spencer complains, making one more swipe for the fork before huffing and giving Brendon his best betrayed look. “Brendon.”

Brendon gives him a slow once-over, and considers the betrayed look for a second, before glancing down at the fork and smirking a little. He lets go of Spencer’s hand and sits back, tapping a finger to his cheek expectantly. Spencer scoffs. “What, really?”

“Then you get the fork back,” Brendon promises, tilting his chin, grinning wide and obnoxious. Spencer rolls his eyes and pretends that he can’t feel how his face is heating up. “Thought you said you were hungry.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow, but he plays along, twisting in his seat til he’s facing Brendon. “The only reason,” he mutters, as he pulls their chairs closer, “that I’m not biting the fuck out of you is because you have to work in the morning.” 

“Hot,” Brendon smirks. “Come on, stop stalling.”

Spencer grumbles, but leans forward and pecks Brendon’s cheek dutifully, following it up by licking a wide, wet stripe up his face. He grabs the fork and immediately shovels some more noodles into his mouth, grinning a little at Brendon’s horrified squawk, and at how he’s rubbing his cheek.

“See if I bring you dinner again,” Brendon grumbles, using his scarf to wipe his face off. 

“Thanks, honey,” Spencer singsongs, taking another bite, giving him a wide, noodle-y grin. 

He doesn’t protest when Brendon scoots their chairs a little bit closer together, or when Brendon leans against him, and he starts flicking the bits of fried tofu over to the side of the container, so it’ll be easier for Brendon to pluck them out with his fingers. After they settle, it’s actually really comfortable. Spencer drapes his arm across the back of Brendon’s chair and traces his fingers over the stitching in Brendon’s big fluffy coat, and they share Brendon’s tea, and they can hear Nate and Gabe arguing about The Cure in the back room.

The pad thai is almost gone when the door opens, letting a blast of cold air in, shocking both Spencer and Brendon out of their noodle comas. “Patrick says all employees have thirty seconds before he comes in and demands to know why no one is working!” Pete shouts as soon as he’s inside, giving Spencer and Brendon a wide, ridiculous grin. 

“Fuck,” Spencer mutters, and he starts immediately trying to clear up not only the noodle mess, but Nate’s newspaper explosion. Beside him, Brendon snaps to attention and starts shoveling things into the paper bag the food came in.

“I’ve got it, Spence,” he whispers, and Spencer darts him a grateful look before he hightails it over to the back room, hip-checking the door open and yelling “PATRICK’S COMING, LOOK BUSY.”

“Aw, fuck,” Gabe groans. Spencer doesn’t stop to reply; he just runs over to the already pristine espresso machines and pretends to clean the counters, just in time for Patrick to waltz into the store. 

“Hi Patrick,” he and Brendon chorus, which makes Pete crack up. 

“Hi boys,” Patrick says dryly. “Why does it smell like takeout in here?”

Spencer glances over at Brendon, who gives Patrick a worried look. “I don’t know. That’s weird, Patrick. You aren’t having a stroke, are you?”

Pete and Spencer both start giggling a little, and then Saporta falls through the back room doors with an armful of Spencer’s clean dishes, Nate right behind him. 

The Gabe and Pete show is always entertaining as fuck, this evening included, so the last twenty minutes of the business day pass relatively quickly. Pete makes Patrick go red no less than four times, until finally Patrick smacks him with a steaming spoon and threatens to lock him outside.

Five minutes before closing time, Ryan barrels through the door, looking murderous as he asks Spencer if there’s any coffee left in the urns. Spencer gives him a grande cup and doesn’t bother asking before he pours cream in it - he’s willing to bet that Ryan’s attempts at flirting in the stacks didn’t go so well. He hands Ryan his coffee and raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

Ryan’s shoulders slump. “She has a girlfriend,” he mutters, ignoring Spencer’s snort, as he dumps four packets of raw sugar into his cup. 

Spencer glances over Ryan’s shoulder, and then sighs. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he mutters, before he tilts his chin up and raises his voice. “Hey, Pete, come meet my best friend.”

“Oh, cool, is this the one with the crush on me?” Pete asks interestedly. Behind him, Patrick groans and smacks at his arm, and Spencer worries for a split second that this is all going to go really bad really fast. 

Fortunately, Ryan just snorts, and reaches over to shake the hand Pete’s extended. “Yeah. Then I met Patrick and realized who the talent was,” he says smoothly, his mouth quirking up as Pete barks a laugh.

Finally, FINALLY, it’s time to lock the doors. Patrick lets Brendon and Pete and Ryan stay inside even though he shouldn’t, and he helps Spencer haul mats around and even gives the lobby a perfunctory mop while Nate counts down the tills and Spencer gives everything one more wipe-down. Gabe is ostensibly hauling the trash out to the bins at the end of the alley. 

They finish in record time, which means Spencer has enough time to duck into the bathroom and change into civvies - it’s not that he really hates black polos or anything, but he fucking misses the days he could wear jeans and his awesome shoes without worrying about their imminent destruction.

He comes back out of the bathroom and ignores Pete’s catcall and the way Patrick punches hiim after, and goes to drop down into a seat near Ryan and Brendon, who are both looking bored as hell. “Hey. Soon as Nate’s done with the money, we can go.”

“Thank fuck,” Ryan groans, leaning his head back against the back rung of the chair. “Boooooooze.”

“Now, Ryan, just because you’ve spent the last four months hitting on a lesbian,” Brendon chides, darting an amused look up at Spencer.

“Shut up,” Ryan grumbles, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “And I wasn’t _hitting on_ her. I was just...trying to get to know her.”

“With your penis,” Spencer adds helpfully. Beside him, Brendon chokes and ducks his head.

“Yeah,” Ryan admits, giving them a rueful smile. “Fuck. I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay, we love you anyway.”

Nate kicks the backroom doors open and shoves the tills into the safe, and they find Gabe wandering the alley and pull him back inside so they can lock up. Everybody holds entirely still while Patrick sets the alarm, and then there’s a mad dash for the door. Nate nearly forgets his iced tea in the back, and has to tear back into the store, nearly knocking over a chair on his way back out. 

“Good job, guys,” Patrick says, as he locks the front doors and tugs the gate down. “Nate, you’re coming tonight, right?”

“Movie night with the smug marrieds,” Nate says, resigned. “We’re watching Jaws.”

“Ooh,” Pete says, looking over at Patrick. “We should have movie nights.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, tucking his keys into an inside coat pocket, obviously not paying very close attention. “Gabe?”

Gabe stops staring down the street, squinting at a couple of buskers, and darts his eyes over to Patrick, taking a second or two to regroup. “Smith and I have a nefarious plan,” he says, tapping a finger to the side of his nose and giving Spencer a significant look. Everyone gives Spencer a dubious glance, and he sighs.

“Half the bar tab trick,” he explains, and everyone _oh_ s and nods in understanding. 

Ryan looks up from his phone, shoving it into his pocket. “Jon’s already at the Clipper. He says Tom and Sean are on their way.”

They say goodbye to Nate and Gabe (Nate heads over to the intersection where Andrew usually picks him up, and Gabe heads off in the direction of the buskers, looking oddly determined), and then make their way over to the Red Line. 

Pete shakes hands with a couple of students who recognize him, and Ryan waxes poetic about the glorious Long Island he’s going to get, and then they’re waiting on the 66 bus, Pete and Patrick holding hands, and then they’re walking into the California Clipper, tugging off their coats and scarves and piling into the booth Jon grabbed for them. Apparently it’s been a hot minute since Jon and Pete have seen each other, so there are a lot of bro hugs and backslapping. Jon’s already two beers in, red-cheeked and smiley.

After they’ve settled into the booth and ordered their first round of drinks, Spencer curls up in the corner and stretches his legs as much as possible, propping his foot up against the opposite seat, next to Jon. Jon squints at him, attempting some sort of Clint Eastwood look, but then pats the top of Spencer’s shoe and allows it.

Underneath the table, Brendon slides his hand into Spencer’s and presses their palms together, not even pausing in his mile-a-minute conversation with Patrick about horns in pop music. Spencer squeezes his hand and takes a sip of his beer, and asks Jon about his and Tom’s latest Day of Awesome Photos and Art. On the other side of Brendon, Patrick has his eyes shut tight and is whimpering about the ethics of watching his underage employees drink alcohol. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick, I’ve been twenty-four for almost six months now,” Spencer tells him firmly. 

“But,” Patrick says, looking torn.

Spencer gives him his best unimpressed face, and takes a long drink of his beer. “Try me, shortstack. I’d say I’d drink you under the table, but it’s not like it would be that much of a challenge.”

A chorus of _oooooooh_ s breaks out at the table, and Patrick narrows his eyes at Spencer. “I’m going to remember that, Smith,” he says ominously. “And I’m going to remind you one night, just before you fall down.”

Spencer grins and nods, pleased to have knocked Patrick out of his own head. 

Half an hour later, Tom and Sean show up and the party officially spills out of the booth and they have to arrange another table just beside it. Tom had apparently dared Sean to shotgun an entire six-pack of beer before their arrival, so Spencer sends a surreptitious text to Gabe letting him know to get his ass down to the Cali Clipper before Sean’s too far gone to remember anything.

He’s a bit surprised by the reply he gets, not 45 seconds later: _Raincheck. Ran into an old friend :)_

He shows the text to Brendon, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs. Then Tom decides that everyone needs to be drinking whiskey, which immediately starts about twelve different arguments, and then the band in the corner starts playing Jolene. Patrick’s immediate demand for silence is actually honored, which is amazing, but after the song ends, Pete orders a round of Wild Turkey for everyone and the arguments start up again.

At some point, Brendon slips out of the booth to go to the bathroom, and when he returns, he’s tapping a pack of cigarettes on the back of his hand, gesturing for Spencer to hand him his coat.

Spencer peers at him disapprovingly, and scowls a little, but Brendon just slides a cigarette behind his ear and looks bored. “Come judge me outside, if you’re going to. And give me my coat.” 

Spencer’s had a few, not enough to be drunk but enough to be loose and happy, so his response time isn’t the greatest, and watching Brendon’s hands fiddle with the pack has made him even more distracted. In the end, Patrick has to haul Brendon’s coat over his lap and hand it over. Spencer does manage to grab Brendon’s scarf, though, and he even remembers to grab a lighter from Sean as they head towards the door.

He decides to be magnanimous and pretend the whoops and catcalls they’re getting just aren’t happening.

The cold outside is bracing, and it smells like snow, and Spencer crowds around Brendon to help him keep the lighter going. Brendon takes the first drag and closes his eyes, curling in around it a little before he exhales, and Spencer watches his neck work. He drags Brendon’s scarf around his neck helpfully, tugging it into a loose knot, and Brendon laughs and offers the cigarette over, giving Spencer an affectionate little look.

“Look at how pretty,” Brendon says, teasing a little, laughing as Spencer takes a drag off the cigarette and blows the smoke into his face. 

“M’not pretty,” Spencer mutters, turning to lean against the wall like Brendon is, tilting his head up towards the sky. He feels Brendon’s hand sliding against his own, and he holds his hand open for it, but Brendon suddenly diverts onto his side, his fingers tickling up Spencer’s ribs until they settle there. Spencer blinks, and then Brendon’s in front of him, cuddling up against him, hands on Spencer’s waist.

Spencer grins crookedly, and drapes his arms over Brendon’s shoulders comfortably, letting his head thunk back against the wall. “It smells like snow,” he tells Brendon, closing his eyes when Brendon curls in, rubbing his slightly rough cheek against Spencer’s neck. “Doesn’t it?”

“Mmhmm,” Brendon hums, against his skin, and it tickles a little, enough for Spencer to snort and try to twist away, smiling. Brendon pulls back, amused, and just looks him over for a long moment, his eyes going soft and dark. 

“What?” Spencer asks, squirming a little, his smile going a little self-conscious as Brendon just keeps _looking_. 

Brendon’s smile twists up a little, wistful. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching a hand up to Spencer’s lapels, smoothing over them.

Spencer stares back for a couple of seconds, startled into something approaching sobriety, as Brendon traces up to his chin. He feels cold fingertips against his jaw, suddenly, and he exhales. “So are you,” he says, half-whispers, and he watches Brendon’s eyes go wide for a second before he leans in for a kiss, slow and thorough and somehow so _careful_ that for a moment there, outside the bar, Spencer feels like something priceless.


	4. Chapter 4

They stay like that for a while, curled up outside the bar. Brendon tucks his head underneath Spencer’s chin and presses his face against Spencer’s neck, and Spencer can smell the shampoo that Ryan bought over at the new Lush in Bucktown, when he was trying to woo the girl at the bookstore. 

“You smell like a hippie,” Spencer informs him hazily, pressing his nose into his hair.

“Your mom,” Brendon mutters back, tucking himself in closer at another blast of wind.

“Ugh,” comes a voice from nearer to the door. Spencer opens an eye, and gives Ryan a sheepish smile. “This is truly sad.”

“Your _mom_ ,” Brendon says again, doing his level best to hide from Ryan inside Spencer’s coat. “Fuck this fucking wind, seriously.”

“You guys have been gone twenty minutes,” Ryan snaps, coming to huddle a few feet away from them, glowering. “Where’d you put those smokes, B?”

Brendon grumbles, and squirms for a second, before he produces the pack of cigarettes from one of his pockets and holds it out for Ryan to grab. He does all of this without pulling away from Spencer at all. Spencer’s really impressed.

Ryan lights up and glares at them some more, exhaling plumes of smoke from both nostrils. Spencer can’t help the lazy smile that breaks over his face at that. “You look like the...thing. On ‘How To Train Your Dragon’.” Brendon makes a happy noise against his neck, and pulls away to look as well. “What was the dragon’s name?”

“Toothless?” Brendon offers, twisting to lean back against Spence, linking their hands on his stomach. “We should totally watch that when we go home.”

Ryan blinks at them, unamused, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Brendon pauses, and then cracks up. “Oh my god, he _does_ look like it! Ryan!” He makes a grabby hands gesture at Ryan, who gazes disdainfully for a moment, before blowing smoke at him. 

“Stop saying I look like various animals, jesus,” Ryan snaps, batting at Brendon’s hands when they get too close. “I didn’t say anything when you kept trying to befriend the Canadian geese at the pond - “

“Fucking geese,” Brendon mutters, folding his arms. Spencer squeezes him a little - one of the geese (the Ryan one) had chased Brendon around most of Humboldt Park one afternoon before getting bored and wandering off. It was pretty traumatic.

“ - or when we went to that pumpkin farm and you tried to feed the goats my latte, but seriously. Enough is enough.” 

Spencer coughs, and hides his face in Brendon’s shoulder for a second. “Dragons aren’t real,” Brendon tells Ryan gently. “And I can’t help that you have a whole zoo of spirit animals.”

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Ryan informs him. Spencer looks up. 

“Hey.” He frowns a little, because _fuck_ , it’d be awful to wake up next to a corpse. Yikes.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “I won’t kill _you_ ,” he says to Spencer.

“Hey!” Brendon squawks. “If you kill me, I’ll haunt the _fuck_ out of you.” 

“Nobody’s killing anybody,” Spencer decides, pushing himself off of the wall. “And nobody is haunting anybody, and I can’t really feel my fingers or anything below my knees, so maybe we should go inside.”

“I’m finishing my cigarette,” Ryan huffs. “You can freeze for a couple more minutes.” Spencer rolls his eyes, and pulls away from Brendon so he can shove his hands in his coat pockets and try to warm them. Brendon gives a little sigh and rubs the back of his neck, making his hair stand up, and gives them both a sheepish little grin before he nods over to the door of the bar.

“What are the odds my drink is still there?” 

“Slim to none,” Ryan says, his mouth twisting up wryly. “I saw Jon eyeing it when I left.”

“Damn it,” Brendon sighs, and he starts over towards the doors. “See you guys inside in a minute.”

Ryan mercifully waits until Brendon’s back inside the bar and the door’s completely closed before he rounds on Spencer and raises one very expressive eyebrow at him. He exhales, and ducks his head. “So.” Ryan lets the word hover there in the air between them.

“Yep,” Spencer tries, risking a glance up at him. Ryan’s smirking a little, which is never a good sign.

“So. Cuddling.” Ryan breathes out a plume of smoke, and flicks the mostly-dead butt into the slush beside the curb. Then he pulls out the pack and lights another one, handing it over to Spencer. 

...Usually he’d say no, and give Ryan a little bit of hell for turning into a chainsmoker, but Ryan has a slightly terrifying interrogating look in his eyes, and Spencer figures using the cigarette as a bolster (or a tool for gesturing. or a weapon) is probably a good idea. He takes one too.

“Um,” he starts, suppressing an urge to cough on the first drag. “He was cold.”

Ryan gives him a flat look. “He’s been complaining he’s cold since September.” Spencer winces and looks back over to the bar door - it’s looking really inviting. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve actually got your shit together and - “

“It’s Brendon,” Spencer points out. “He’s probably in there sitting on Patrick’s lap singing Michael Jackson songs right now.”

Ryan stares at him, and then shrugs and takes another drag. He gets distracted by a gaggle of girls spilling out of the bar, which gives Spencer a brief, merciful respite. “Probably,” Ryan agrees, still watching them semi-interestedly. “But he married you.”

“For the insurance,” Spencer adds quickly. “It was just - “

“ _God_ ,” Ryan exhales, giving him a supremely unimpressed look. “Why am I friends with you? Seriously, you’re so stupid. I could do so much better.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Spencer huffs, tilting his chin. “You’d try and then I’d tell whoever you found about how you used to eat paste and then it’d be all over.”

“I only did that _one time_ ,” Ryan squawks, reaching out to punch Spencer in the shoulder. “It was in second grade, let it fucking go already.”

“Paste-eater,” Spencer says calmly, fighting back a smile as Ryan shakes his fist threateningly. “I am totally the best you could do. Deal with it.”

“Ugh, that’s depressing,” Ryan huffs, unable to keep biting back a rueful smile. He tries to hide it by taking another drag off his cigarette, but it’s too late, Spencer’s totally caught him.

“Paaaaaaaste-eater,” Spencer drawls, quiet, smirking when he hears Ryan snort. “And then there was that one time in middle school you drew a moustache on your face with a Sharpie and it stayed for four days.”

Ryan chuckles, and sighs. “Yeah, that was pretty dumb. I thought your mom was going to pee her pants.” He looks down at his cigarette and makes a face at it, flicking it into the gutter. “Remember when she had to come and get you after two days of scout camp because you wouldn’t stop crying?”

“Fuck you, that shit was traumatic,” Spencer says swiftly, tossing his cigarette as well. “We had to dig holes to crap in. It was a fucking cholera epidemic waiting to happen.”

“Loser.” Ryan grins at him, and Spencer’s struck by how _young_ it makes him look. “Whatever, you were just homesick.”

“Well, that too,” Spencer admits. “I was eleven, dude.”

“Harry Potter went to Hogwarts when _he_ was eleven. He didn’t cry for two days.”

“Harry Potter’s not real,” Spencer reminds Ryan, for the umpteenth time. “Also he was living under the stairs before that.”

“True.” Ryan takes a breath in, and glances over at the door again. “Look,” he says, biting his lip for a second before gazing at Spence, “just...it’s Brendon. He’s not scary. You should really talk about all this shit.”

“Yeah, okay,” Spencer nods, making a face and taking a step over towards the door.

“No, I’m serious,” Ryan protests. “I can’t tell him to do it, he won’t listen to me, and you guys really need to - I don’t know, there need to be rules or something, before.” He breaks off, and huffs, and jams his hands back into his pockets, his shoulders hunching over. “Goddammit, you’re both such idiots. Have a fucking heart-to-heart with the kid and establish some, I don’t know, pick a fucking _safe word_ before somebody gets knocked up or you split up and I’m a child of another divorce and I have to spend my weekends being shuttled around.”

Spencer blinks, and then can’t quite help the crooked smile that breaks over his face. He makes a ridiculous _aww_ sound and tugs Ryan into a sideways hug, squashing him closer when Ryan huffs and tries to push away. “Ryan. Shut up.”

“Fuck off, I’m serious,” Ryan grouses, halfheartedly attempting to shove him off. “When this goes fucking balls-up don’t expect me to be Team Spencer just because you know I ate paste.”

“Of course you’ll be Team Spencer,” Spencer tells him, pressing his nose to Ryan’s cheek. “Because I know about the Sharpie moustache too.”

“I’m gonna be Team Whoever’s Not a Complete Dumbass,” Ryan grumbles, poking into his ribs. “So you’re probably out of luck.”

Spencer snorts, and kisses the top of his head (because he’s pretty sure it still pisses Ryan off that he’s taller than him now), and starts dragging him towards the door. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Like _soon_. Not when you’re retiring.”

“Okay, okay,” Spencer grumbles, holding the door open and pushing Ryan through. Brendon isn’t sitting in anybody’s lap, but he and Patrick are singing Michael Jackson songs. Spencer feels he should win some sort of award.

 

When they’re walking back home, Ryan and Jon stumble out in front of them and manage a good thirty-foot lead (mostly because they keep sprinting ahead to likely looking iced-over puddles so Jon can jump on them and see if they crack). Spencer keeps a close watch, just in case something ridiculous happens and Ryan or Jon break _their_ ankles, but so far, they seem to be doing pretty good. Jon is _tanked_. But he’s a happy drunk, and he’s suggested to Ryan that they all go back to the apartment and play Scrabble, so he is officially Ryan’s favorite forever.

He offers his arm to Brendon, and Brendon gives him a surprised little smile as he takes it. “That was fun,” Spencer says, as an opener.

“Right? I can’t believe we got the band to play Billie Jean,” Brendon says, watching the ground for ice patches as they walk along. “That was awesome.” He slides for a second, and clutches Spencer’s arm hard, exhaling a laugh as they both continue along.

“Y’okay?” Spencer asks dutifully. “How’s your leg?”

“It’s fine,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes and smirking over at Spencer. “Seriously, you don’t need to ask that every time we go somewhere. It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrow a little at that, and he looks over at Brendon, checking him over. “You would tell me if it did, though, right?”

Brendon sighs, a little exasperated, and Spencer catches the flash of a smile. “Yes, Spencer,” Brendon says, his voice mockingly monotone.

“No, seriously,” Spencer says, trying not to frown. He keeps thinking about Ryan, and what he said about _rules_. “Brendon, if it hurts, you need to tell me. Okay?”

Brendon looks up at him, raising an eyebrow, and nods a few seconds later. “Okay, Spence,” he says, his voice gone back to normal. 

“Promise me,” Spencer says, inwardly wincing at how fierce he sounds.

“I promise,” Brendon tells him. He gives Spencer’s arm a squeeze, and moves them over a little so he can avoid a puddle that Jon smashed in, in the middle. “...Are _you_ okay?” He gives Spencer a squinty, concerned look.

He sighs. He’d figured he’d overplayed his hand right there. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Spencer tells him airily, kicking a tallboy can out of the way before Brendon can somehow figure out a way to break his neck on it.

“You sure?” Brendon asks, tugging on his arm until Spencer caves and actually looks over at him. “You went a little...Sergeant Smith, with the orders, there.”

“I know, sorry,” Spencer groans. “Just.” He rubs his free hand over his face briefly, and quickly tucks it back into his pocket before it can freeze. “I don’t know. I don’t mean to be annoying about it. Oldest kid syndrome, or something.”

“It’s okay,” Brendon assures him. Spencer nods, and for the next couple of minutes, there’s an easy silence between them. Ahead of them, Ryan and Jon cheer as Jon manages to crack a particularly stubborn sheet of ice. Brendon laughs, and presses a little closer into Spencer’s side, and Spencer closes his eyes for a few brief seconds.

“Ryan wants us to talk about...rules, and shit,” he stammers, before he can talk himself out of it, “and I was thinking that - I mean. You know that you don’t have to, like. You’re not just.” He scowls, and blows a breath out, hard, and tries not to notice the way Brendon’s staring at him. “You’re not, like, a mail-order bride or anything.”

Brendon blinks at him, and tugs Spencer out of the way of a particularly low-hanging icicle. “Um. Correct.”

“Goddammit. Fucking Ryan,” Spencer mutters, under his breath. He raises his voice back to normal pitch and tries to put his train of thought back on its tracks. “I know that this isn’t what - that the whole marriage thing wasn’t your idea.” He pauses to swallow, and hurriedly continues, before Brendon can, like, laugh at him forever. “And I didn’t want you to think that you _had_ to, y’know...this morning, in the hallway. Or when we were outside, at the bar. Like. I’m not expecting that.” There. He squares his shoulders, and stares unwaveringly ahead.

For a long, excruciating moment, Brendon is quiet. Then: “Okay.”

Spencer’s resolve cracks, and he glances over at Brendon, who’s concentrating very hard on the sidewalk. His jaw’s clenched. Spencer watches the muscles in his neck move, and then worriedly nudges his shoulder. “Okay?” he goads, waiting for something - _anything_ \- that’ll give him more to go on.

“Okay, we won’t - I won’t do that anymore,” Brendon mutters, his arm going stiff and light against Spencer’s, like he’s trying not to let too much weight settle, like it’s too much of a burden for Spencer to bear. 

Spencer feels weirdly like his ribcage is going to implode and explode at the same time, and he tugs Brendon’s arm back down, reaching for his hand as well. “ _Bren_ ,” he huffs, “that is really not what I meant. At all.”

“Well Jesus Christ, you called me a mail-order bride,” Brendon hisses, looking away from him, still super tense. “You could just _say_ if you didn’t want me to - “

“I was trying to tell you the same thing,” Spencer interrupts, before Brendon can get even more weird at him. He stops, and grabs for Brendon’s other hand, gently steering him so that they’re facing each other. Brendon’s still looking at the ground. “Brendon, god. It’s not like making out with you is a _hardship_ , come on. I like it. I was just trying to say that if you don’t want to, you don’t have to keep doing it.”

Brendon looks up at him, still suspicious. “Seriously? That’s all you meant?”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , okay? Kissing you is fun and educational.”

Brendon snorts, and mutters something that sounds very much like _what your mom said last night_. Then he actually looks up at Spencer, and gives him a sheepish smile. “Well okay.”

“Yeah?” Spencer can’t help it, he can’t fucking _help_ the stupid smile that plasters itself all over his face. “Well. Good.” He rethreads Brendon’s arm through his and starts walking again, a little slower this time, meandering the half-block back home. Beside him, Brendon tries to stifle an attack of giggles, and mostly fails.

“Fucking called me a mail-order bride,” Brendon mutters, reaching to pinch his side. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Yes, dear,” Spencer says dryly, trying to bat his hand away. 

“And just so we’re clear, we have a rule in favor of making out, right?” Brendon asks, grinning up at him. Spencer beams back.

“Yeah. With an option on cuddling,” Spencer nods. Beside him, Brendon squirms with glee.

“The answer to that option is always yes. Just, for future record,” Brendon tells him, burrowing in closer to him. Spencer unthreads their arms just long enough to wrap his around Brendon’s shoulders, and tugs him in tight. 

“Good to know.” He presses his mouth to the top of Brendon’s hair, and then makes sure his scarf is still arranged properly. “Ryan also said we had to come up with a safe word,” he remembers, grinning again when Brendon cracks up.

“What the fuck? What does he think we’re doing at night?” Brendon gasps, shaking against him. “The walls aren’t that thick!”

“I don’t even know, dude,” Spencer says, bemused. “I mean. It was out of left field, too. We were talking about how he used to eat paste, and then the next thing out of his mouth, boom. Safe words.”

“Classic segue,” Brendon says, still laughing. “Oh my god.” 

Spencer waits for a moment or two, until Brendon’s managed to mostly compose himself. They’re almost home - Spencer can see where Ryan and Jon have beaten them, and have already turned on the lights in the front room. “So, what should our safe word be?”

“Um.” Brendon chuckles, but he bites his lip and appears to actually be thinking about it. “Progresso chicken noodle soup. Llamas. Mint oreos. Bea Arthur. Sue the Dinosaur.”

“I think it has to be something you can say pretty fast,” Spencer says, though privately, he really likes the idea of Bea Arthur. Dorothy Zbornak was the _shit_. “Though, I mean. It’s not like we’re actually going to be using it.”

“Macy’s. Kohls. Vegas.” Brendon pauses, and glances over. “Hey.”

“Vegas?” Spencer asks, thinking about it for a bit. “Yeah, I guess that’d work.”

“Fuck yeah it will! Safe word five!” Brendon says, holding his hand up. Spencer sighs, and reminds himself to figure out how to block How I Met Your Mother from Netflix. But he does give Brendon a high five.

A couple of minutes later, they’re tromping into the foyer, unwrapping themselves from their coats and scarves and pretending not to hear Ryan and Jon giving them shit about taking so long to get back. Spencer helps Brendon unwrap his scarf, and Brendon helps Spencer undo all the toggles on his coat. Spencer’s just getting ready to shrug out of it, when Brendon grabs both lapels and pushes him up against the wall, into the corner where Ryan and Jon can’t see them. Spencer’s eyes widen in shock.

“We have a rule,” Brendon reminds him, pressing in close and tilting his head up as Spencer’s arms automatically close around his waist. Spencer’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Brendon’s eyes flutter closed just as their mouths touch, and the kiss is just as good as they always are. 

It’s short, though, because Ryan and Jon are only about 15 feet away, and they’re not even separated by an actual _door_. So a few seconds later, Brendon pulls away and unconsciously licks his lips, and Spencer bites back the whine he _really_ wants to give at that, and just holds onto him for a little bit longer. “God,” Spencer breathes. “This whole marriage thing really has its perks.”

Brendon snorts, and gives him a crooked little smile, bumping Spencer’s chin with his cheek and playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “Guess so,” he says absently. “I would’ve kissed you before, though.”

Spencer sucks in a breath, and pulls back enough to look at him, kind of stunned. “Really?”

Brendon looks sort of rueful, and nods. Spencer stares at him for a few seconds. “Shit, but. ...Huh.” He gives a short laugh, and tugs Brendon up a little, hugging him tight. “Oh man, I would have too.”

Brendon stills in his arms, and after a few seconds he starts chuckling. “We’re such idiots,” he says, sounding _fond_ as he extricates himself from Spencer’s grip. “Come on,” he says, giving Spencer an affectionate little grin and reaching out his hand for him. “Scrabble.”

Spencer knows he’s got a similar smile on his own face, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. So he settles for taking Brendon’s hand and following him into the living room. “Those triple word scores are _mine_.”

 

Jon dazzles them all by producing a twelve-pack of beer from the cavernous recesses of their kitchen cabinets (he brought it over months ago for a party, and then hid it when Sean broke the coffee table and needed to believe there was no more alcohol in the house), and makes them split it four ways. Then he beats the shit out of all of them at Scrabble by playing A-T-I-M off of Ryan’s “VERB,” picking up a triple-word score just to add insult to injury. Ryan gapes at the board for over a minute, before picking up his letter-holder and beating Jon on the arm with it, and Jon just laughs and takes it, shielding himself when Ryan starts to pelt him with letters.

“You’re going to have to pick them all up later,” Jon warns him.

“Worth it,” Ryan growls, flinging another handful at him. On the couch, Spencer murmurs and tucks his face tighter into Brendon’s neck, blocking out the light, and sighs a little. He’s _so close_ to being asleep, if Ryan and Jon would just be a little quieter then he could - 

“Hey. Hey, Spence,” he hears Brendon whisper in his ear, and Spencer grumbles and shifts. “Hey, c’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“Fuck beds,” Spencer groans, flopping over onto the pillow when Brendon tries to pull him away a little. “Couch.”

“Nooooo,” Brendon wheedles, curling an arm around his middle and squeezing, trying to drag him back up into sitting. “Ryan and Jon are going to play again, and you don’t want to be around for that bloodbath.”

“You really fucking don’t,” Ryan says, pointing a threatening finger at Jon. Jon salutes back lazily.

“Thanks for all your help, guys,” Spencer can hear Brendon mutter, and he smiles a little as he lets Brendon tug him up off the couch. Brendon seems determined to shoulder most of Spencer’s weight, but Spencer is a grown-ass man, he can walk on his own. ...Though he does decide to let Brendon help out a little. So he can feel he contributed.

“I like Jon,” Spencer tells Brendon. “He’s a Scrabble ninja.”

“I like you too, Spencer,” Jon calls after him. Spencer grins, and lets Brendon shuffle them through the bedroom door. He sighs happily and crawls onto the bed, curling up on the cool bedcovers. Brendon turns on the desklamp, which Spencer doesn’t particularly appreciate, but it _does_ mean he gets to watch Brendon change into pyjamas via its dim light, so that’s a plus.

“You have a nice back,” he tells Brendon sleepily, feeling very loose-limbed and cheerful from the combination of beer, bed, and the onset of sleep.

“Thank you,” Brendon tells him solemnly, coming over to unlace Spencer’s shoes. “You have a nice front.” Spencer scoffs and waves away the compliment, and tries to protest Brendon undoing his shoes, but he can’t seem to move. The bed is swallowing him whole.

“The bed’s eating me. I’m too young to die,” Spencer whines against the sheets, but Brendon is either ignoring him or can’t hear him, and then Brendon’s got one of his shoes off, so Spencer just gives himself up to his fate and lets Brendon pull off his shoes. 

“Jeans off,” Brendon tells him, giving him a stern look before he pads off to brush his teeth, and Spencer wonders for a brief petulant moment why _Brendon_ is still so awake, when he remembers that Brendon probably got to sleep til noon yesterday after he left. He whimpers, and struggles, but finally manages to shimmy out of his jeans, throwing them over near the clothes hamper before giving up on the idea of getting up to get pyjama pants and just burrowing under the covers instead. Fuck it, he’s wearing underwear. Good enough.

Eventually, Brendon comes back, and Spencer waves a hand before tucking it back under the blanket tiredly and curling towards the middle of the bed. He can hear the desk lamp being shut off. He keeps his eyes closed, but recognizes the feel of the mattress when Brendon slides onto it, and the way the sheets snap and drape once Brendon’s there beside him. “Night,” he says, having to break off to yawn.

“What time’s your first class?” Brendon asks him. Spencer opens up one eye long enough to see Brendon setting the alarm on his phone, and then he closes it again.

“Mmh, ten,” he sighs. “So _early_.”

“At least you didn’t go crazy and sign up for an eight o’clock class like Ryan last semester,” Brendon points out, his voice going quiet and private as he sets his phone down on the bedside table and shifts closer to the middle of the bed.

“Oh my god, that was the worst,” Spencer agrees, reaching for him and finally getting a handful of Brendon’s t-shirt. He squirms closer too, not stopping til he can feel Brendon’s breath on his face. An arm slowly makes its way across his middle, and Spencer shivers, makes a contented little noise in the back of his throat. 

“That was cute,” Brendon teases him, half-whispering, and Spencer huffs and punches him lightly, in the chest, not letting go of his t-shirt. 

He yawns, and sinks down into his pillow. “Hey,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry I called you a mail-order bride.”

“It’s okay. You’re dumb, but I know better than to hold it against you.”

Spencer frowns and hits him again, though he does pat it better after. “M’glad we talked, though. About the kissing and everything.”

Brendon snorts, and tugs him closer, his hand rubbing comfortably up and down Spencer’s back. “Me too. Especially about the kissing and everything.”

Spencer frowns a little, and feels kind of floaty, disconnected from the world with only Brendon to tether him down. “I’m glad you want to keep doing it,” he tells Brendon, his words going slurred and soft as he gets farther and farther out.

“...Me too,” he hears Brendon say, sounding kinda far away.

“Wanted to kiss you for so long,” he sighs, just before he floats out of range, into a deep sleep.

 

The next morning, Spencer’s jolted out of his semi-coma by Rick Astley buzzing next to his ear. He flails wildly, and finally sits up, before he realizes the source and shuts Brendon’s phone alarm off, groaning. He debates just saying fuck higher education and going back to sleep, but then Ryan starts singing in the shower, and Spencer’s stomach rumbles, and he figures between those two things together the sleep would be subpar at best, so he might as well go and learn something.

Brendon’s already gone, which is unusual but not unheard of - every now and then he gets to the store ridiculously early for inventory shit. Spencer’s a little thrown by the vast expanse of bed beside him, but then he notices the post-it note on Brendon’s pillow, and beams sleepily once he’s squinted his way through it:

_Spencer Smith! Good luck on your first day of classes! Make an A and don’t let the big kids pick on you. I packed your lunch. Don’t let Ryan eat it._

_PS - Will you go on a date with me? Check _____YES or _____NO_

Spencer grabs it, and slides out of bed, and finds a Sharpie on the desk. He puts a big, ridiculous check mark next to YES and then tucks it into his bag along with Brendon’s phone, sandwiching them carefully between his ipod and his kindle in the front, so he won’t forget where they are. Then he heads off into the kitchen, to make coffee happen so he can start getting ready for his first day of classes.

 

His first class of the day is some fucking gen ed Shakespeare course that Ryan badgered him into, and it takes Spencer all of ten minutes to just get pissed at the entire thing and at Ryan as the indirect cause, because he’s one of like three guys in the class and apparently the professor is really into reading scenes aloud. He gets assigned to be Laertes, Cassius, and fucking Troilus before they’re even finished with the syllabus. _Fuck._

 _hate shakespeare and you_ he surreptitiously texts to Ryan. _have 2 b laertes in class_

 _good luck with that_ Ryan sends back, not 30 seconds later. Spencer suddenly remembers that Ryan’s stuck in Geology, and he smirks and feels a little bit better about the world. _at least its not romeo_

 _true_ Spencer concedes. The girl sitting beside him shoots him a dirty look for having his phone out, but Spencer just gives her a cheerful smile and shifts a little lower in his seat. _silver lining_

_tho you have a lot of experience w that kind of thing lately_

_fuck you_ Spencer shoots back, snorting softly. He waits, but it seems that Ryan doesn’t have any witty rejoinders to send back immediately, so Spencer sets his phone down on the edge of his tiny desk, and goes back to pretending to listen to what the professor has to say.

Two minutes later, his phone lights up again.

“Really?” the girl next to him sighs, raising both her eyebrows and giving Spencer an amused look. “Is this a commonplace occurrence?”

Spencer feels a little bit bad, and bites his lip as he thumbs across the screen to unlock it. It’s Brendon this time. He’s sent a couple of photos; one of Dallon’s newest windowpane illustrations at the store, and one of Julie, hunched over her bass, a frown of concentration on her face. 

“Cute,” the girl says, glancing over. She gives Spencer a quick once-over, assessing. “Is it your sister?”

“No,” Spencer murmurs, his cheeks starting to heat through. “She’s...my, um. She’s taking lessons from my husband,” he mutters, all in a rush, keeping his eyes fixed on his phone. There’s a pause, and then the girl leans over to get a closer look, grinning approvingly at the screen. 

“I have a friend who has the same bass, no joke,” she says finally, twisting her long hair out of the way, flicking it over her shoulder as she shifts closer to Spencer. “Show me one of your boy, then.”

Spencer can’t seem to keep his smile in check, and he leans closer as well, holding his phone down between them so the professor can’t see as he starts to thumb through his photos. There’s a couple of Van Vleet and Tomrad being idiots at the Cali Clipper, and one of Jon toasting the camera, and one of Ryan mid-snow-angel in the park, and then - 

“There,” Spencer says, angling the phone towards her. “That’s him.” It’s actually a pretty good photo, he had Jon forward it to him off of his phone. Brendon’s beaming and chomping on a french fry, looking off at something happening to his right, huddled into the bench at Kuma’s. 

“Aw,” she breathes, pleased. “Oh my god, you’re both such _babies_.”

“Hey,” Spencer protests halfheartedly, getting distracted by the photo a little. He almost misses the way she holds her hand out, between the desks.

“I’m Greta,” she whispers.

“Spencer,” he replies. Greta raises her eyebrows and looks down pointedly at his phone, and Spencer snorts and waves it a little. “Brendon.”

“Well, you’re both cute, even if you are child brides,” she jokes. “Now shut your phone off before I stick it somewhere Brendon will find inconvenient.”

Spencer blinks. Greta gives him a placid smile, and goes back to paying attention to what the professor is saying. 

He shuts his phone off and sticks it in his backpack, because even though he’s pretty sure Greta _wouldn’t_ make good on her threat, something tells him that she _could_.

 

After Shakespeare, he and Greta friend each other on facebook, and then he runs halfway across campus to get to his Statistics class, which he realizes two minutes in is going to kick his ass. It’s a huge-ass auditorium full of kids with a projector and a screen at the front, and a professor beamed in from another classroom, though, so Spencer feels free to tug his phone back out and abuse his freedom with impunity.

The first thing he does is text Brendon. _made a friend!_

Five minutes later, he gets a response: _good job! color inside the lines and don’t push anyone down at recess!_

 _no promises_ , he sends back, and then he does actually listen to the disembodied voice for a while until class ends. 

He has a three-hour break, so he wanders over to his Starbucks with the intention of laughing at whoever’s behind the counter, having to work on the first day back. He barely makes it through the door before Nate gives him a hateful look and mouths _your fault_ over the group of girls arguing over whether or not to get whipped cream on the drinks they’re splitting. He and Nate have discussed why it’s unfair to blame him for every drink that every other DePaul student buys, but Nate doesn’t seem to want to let logic be a factor in his reasoning. So Spencer gives him a beatific smile, and joins the queue.

“Hi,” he says when he gets up to the register, “I want to get me one of them there frozen coffee things? But I don’t want it to taste too much like coffee.”

“Go to hell,” Nate says swiftly, marking a line of cups and throwing them at the cold bar, flapping his hands apologetically at Gabe, who is giving him an outraged look. “Go to hell and die.”

“Hey, the customer is always right,” he needles, resting his elbows on the counter, leaning over to give Gerard on drive-thru a wave. “Surprise and delight me, coffee boy.”

Nate glares some more, hands on his hips, and Spencer beams at him. “Are you here to actually buy something, or to just be a dick?”

“I can’t do both?” Spencer beams some more, and then shrugs and starts digging through his bag for his wallet. “Yeah, actually, I just want a grande drip and a Brendon.”

Nate makes a face, but dutifully starts marking a cup, placing it on the espresso bar. He grabs Spencer’s coffee and shoves it at him, waving his wallet away with a swift _your money’s no good here_. Spencer sticks his tongue out at him and shoves a couple of dollar bills into the tip jar before moving on.

Gabe’s swearing underneath his breath in Spanish, too low for Spencer to actually make out the words as he floats between cold bar and the handoff plane, plunking down frappuccinos and calling them out for the girls in line before Spencer. “Hey,” Spencer remembers, craning his neck to see over the espresso machines. “Hey, Gabe, how was the old friend?”

Gabe looks up, and takes a couple of seconds to actually find him in the crowd, before his mouth quirks into a dirty, sweet little smile. “Flexible. Acrobatic. Amazing.”

Spencer snorts, and nods. “Awesome. Glad I asked.”

“Don’t be jealous, _mijo_ ,” Gabe calls over the roar of the blenders. “You’re still the sexiest little dishwasher I ever saw.”

Between them, Mikey pauses at the espresso bar, and turns just enough to raise an eyebrow at Gabe, who suddenly looks hilariously trapped. Spencer starts snickering, and after a moment Mikey goes back to steaming milk, a tiny smirk on his face, and after a bit Gabe huffs and starts banging open the blenders, muttering in Spanish again.

Mikey pauses at Brendon’s cup, taking in the ridiculous combination of syrups, and sighs.

“I know,” Spencer says preemptively. “I’ve tried to stop him.”

“It’s just _gross_ , Spence,” Mikey murmurs, though he starts pumping from different bottles. When he’s done, he presses his lips together in a thin line and whips out his sharpie, holding the cup up to the light and drawing a line where the syrup ends. He crosshatches underneath and then draws an arrow above it, labeling it ALL SYRUP in big black judgey letters. He even puts a little frowny face next to it, before capping the sharpie and putting it back in his apron. Spencer hides his grin by taking a swig from his coffee, and waits patiently for Mikey to finish the drink off. Mikey caps it, and instead of sliding across the handoff, he turns to the drive-thru. “Hey, Gee,” he says, holding the cup up til Gerard actually looks up from the order screen. “Brendon.”

Gee’s face lights up, and he immediately makes grabby hands for it, stealing Mikey’s sharpie out of his apron pocket.

“Seriously, guys?” Spencer sighs, leaning against the counter, scooting out of the way for a few other customers who’re waiting. 

“Shut up, it won’t take two seconds,” Gerard orders, his eyebrows furrowing as he starts turning the Starbucks siren on the front of the cup into something resembling Cthulhu. Spencer groans, and watches the people in the car idling outside the drive-thru window gaze at Gerard in something akin to horror as he doodles a vampire sinking its fangs into a coffee bean on the other side. “Good?” he asks, finally handing the cup over to Spencer.

“Just beautiful,” Spencer says dryly.

Gerard beams at him, and then turns back to the drive-thru, flailing a little as he remembers _oh, shit, CUSTOMERS_.

“Tell Brendon hey,” Mikey says, slamming through the lineup of drinks around his bar like a machine. Spencer watches appreciatively for a few seconds before he picks both cups up.

“Will do,” he promises, cradling Brendon’s cup against his front as he heads out the door and back into the wind. 

He gets the Red Line and then the 66 down to the record store, and pokes his head in the front door - Dallon’s behind the register, and waves when he sees Spencer. “Hey, he’s out back in the alley,” Dallon tells him, not even bothering with small talk.

“Thanks,” Spencer says, saluting him with the coffee cup as he ducks back out onto the street and trots down to the end, ducking down behind the stores. He can see Brendon sitting on the stoop just outside the back door of the store, sucking guiltily on a cigarette, his coat collar popped up against the cold. “Hey,” he calls, grinning a little when he sees Brendon startle.

“Shit, you _scared_ me,” Brendon grumps, though his eyes light up when he sees the coffee cups Spencer has in both hands. “Ooh.”

“Yeah, your cup got Way brother all over it,” Spencer says, passing it down to him before nudging Brendon over a little, occupying the section of the stoop next to him. 

“I see that,” Brendon says, scrutinizing the drawings. “Dude, those tentacles are awesome. Gerard is amazing. I should show Dallon.”

“See, Mikey even included a helpful diagram about your syrup,” Spencer points out, smirking when Brendon rolls his eyes and takes a long, obnoxious slurp of his drink. 

“I beheld my creation and called it good,” Brendon says loftily. “You’re just jealous that you don’t have a drink called the Spencer.”

“They only call it the Brendon because otherwise it’d take five minutes to call,” Spencer informs him. “It’s not like having a sandwich named after you.”

“Mm. My day’s going great, honey, thanks for asking,” Brendon tells him, pasting on a fake smile for him. “Julie fucking nailed _Play That Funky Music_ and I’m a badass teacher.”

“Awesome,” Spencer says dutifully, finishing the last of his coffee and setting the cup down beside him. “What else?”

“Well.” Brendon pauses, squinting at the wall on the other side of the alley for a moment or two. “Not much. I had the last bagel for breakfast. Got the inventory mostly done. Sold a couple of hardcore CDs to some kids with a lot of face metal. What about you?”

“Eh. Classes. Stats is gonna _kill_ me,” Spencer groans, remembering. “Made a friend in Shakespeare but we have to read out loud. And I have to go back at three for Poli Sci, which is most likely going to suck, so. Y’know. Yay school.”

Brendon sucks his teeth, and rubs his hand across Spencer’s back comfortingly, leaning in when Spencer grumbles and sags against him. “This is totally why I married you. For your sunny disposition.”

“Fuck you, I’m cheerful,” Spencer grouses, into Brendon’s coat sleeve. “I brought you awful coffee.”

“I mostly married you for the coffee,” Brendon admits, cuddling him in a little. Spencer goes with it, burrowing in against Brendon shamelessly. Brendon smells like cigarette smoke and their laundry detergent and hippie shampoo, and Spencer closes his eyes for a few seconds, comforted despite his best efforts. 

“You married me because I am the most awesome,” Spencer informs him, tucking his hands inside Brendon’s coat, heedless of the yelp it causes. “And because now we can go to the doctor on Thursday, and get your leg fixed on your day off.”

“Yeah?” Brendon says, sounding a little surprised. Spencer nods, and presses in closer, resting his cheek on Brendon’s shoulder. 

“And I was thinking, you probably need new glasses, we could go see an eye doctor about that too,” Spencer says, glancing over at him, to gauge interest. Brendon’s giving him an incredulous little look, and then he breaks into a smile.

“Okay, Spence,” he says, tugging him up so that their legs are tangled together and they’re both mostly protected from the wind tunnel of the alley. Brendon reaches for his coffee, and makes a face when he realizes it’s already gone completely cold, but he presses on regardless, gulping it down.

“Gross,” Spencer mutters, making a face at him. “You don’t have to finish it, B, seriously.”

“Hey, Gerard and Mikey went to a lot of trouble to make this,” Brendon points out. 

“Yeah, they did have to ignore a lot of paying customers,” Spencer agrees, nodding his head.

“See? So,” Brendon says, just before he tilts his head back and chugs the rest of it, wincing and setting the cup down beside him. It immediately tips over, and skitters off down the alley. Spencer snickers, especially at the way Brendon seems to take the loss and the littering personally. “I was going to keep that to show Dallon.”

“Gerard will totally draw you another one,” Spencer tells him, patting his arm. “Give him half a reason to draw on a cup and he will.”

“Awesome,” Brendon sighs, settling down next to him. They stay like that for a long moment, breaths condensing in the cold, before Brendon shifts, just a little. “I left you a note, this morning.”

“Oh yeah,” Spencer remembers, brightening. “I brought it with me, it’s in my bag.”

“Yeah?” Brendon turns his head a little, enough that Spencer can see him raise his eyebrows expectantly.

“I checked ‘yes’.” Spencer smiles when Brendon does, helpless to stop. 

“Well,” Brendon says after a beat, still sort of beaming stupidly at him, “duh.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and thumps him on the chest lightly. “Dick,” he mutters, just before Brendon slides his ice-cold fingertips up to Spencer’s chin, tilting it up a little as he leans in for a kiss. Something in Spencer’s chest stills and settles at that, and for a weightless second Spencer realizes he’s been _waiting_ for this, since he saw Brendon in the alley. Somehow his body is already trained to expect Brendon to kiss him. _Weird._

Brendon’s breath is warm on his cheeks, which is nice, and his mouth tastes like coffee and hazelnut and still a little like cigarettes. It’s strange to think that he’s getting used to the way Brendon kisses, but Spencer finds that this time he can comfortably sink into the pattern of their mouths sliding together and apart. He knows that when he tugs Brendon’s bottom lip a little, Brendon’s breath hitches, and he knows how the quick dart of Brendon’s tongue into the corner of his lips sends a shiver up his spine. 

He breathes a contented little noise into Brendon’s mouth and squirms closer, til his arms fit comfortably around Brendon’s middle, grinning a bit at the way Bren falters and whines.

“Stop laughing at me,” Brendon huffs, mouth still against Spencer’s.

“M’not,” Spencer promises, patting his back, though he can’t help grin again at the way their teeth clack when Brendon pulls him in. Brendon exhales again, and Spencer tugs him closer, pulling at the sides of his coat until Brendon’s pretty much on his lap. “Good?”

“Mm,” Brendon hums, untangling his arms til Spencer feels them settling on his shoulders. “Yup. You?” he says, pressing the cold tip of his nose against Spencer’s cheek.

“Well, my ass is kind of cold,” Spencer says conversationally, “but I figure, y’know. Chicago. January. Sitting on cement.”

“It is kind of a given,” Brendon agrees, flashing a quick smile before sealing his mouth over Spencer’s again, before he can respond. This time he’s not fucking around at all; his tongue slicks interestedly over the back of Spencer’s teeth only a few seconds later, and Spence finds his fingers digging into Brendon’s back, having to hold on against a sudden onslaught of kissing. Brendon shivers in his arms, clutching at him a little, twisting fingers in his hair.

“Jesus, Bren, y - mmf,” Spencer grunts, interrupted by Brendon nipping at his upper lip and tugging him back in. He kisses back gamely, but after half a minute breathing becomes kind of an issue, and he has to pull away, duck his head, and gasp. “God.”

The thing is - and he is _never_ going to tell Brendon, or anyone, _ever_ \- Brendon is only the third person Spencer’s ever kissed. And even then, he feels like it’s cheating to include Jennifer Hitchens because they were only in fifth grade and it was at a stupid Halloween party. He was dressed like a fucking scarecrow and she was dressed like a cowgirl. It wasn’t the bright, shining moment the movies said it should be.

His second kissing experience was a little better, but Emma only ever wanted to when they were the last ones left in the band room, and once or twice when he’d drive her home after jazz practice. But then she’d gotten back together with her on-again-off-again boyfriend (he played the fucking tuba) and Spencer suddenly had Ryan _and_ Brendon to worry about all the fucking time, so they’d just sort of petered out.

That said, Brendon’s urgency is weird and completely foreign to him, and it’s kind of unnerving. He’s really unused to being the focus of this much attention. 

He takes a breath, and closes his eyes for a second, resting his forehead against Brendon’s cheek briefly before he pulls back and gives Brendon a tentative smile. Brendon smiles back, looking him over carefully. “Hey.”

Spencer’s mouth twists a little, wry. “Hey,” he murmurs back, sliding one of his hands against Brendon’s middle, feeling it expand and contract with his breath before he reaches up, cautious and sort of embarrassed, and cups Brendon’s chin. (Just because he hasn’t had much experience with this whole kissing thing doesn’t mean he hasn’t devoted hours to developing theories on how to go about it. He’s hoping this translates into a few levels of skill. He’s also hoping this concept works with blowjobs.) 

Brendon makes a soft, inquisitive noise, and starts to lean in again, but Spencer shakes his head, sharp, and he stops. “Let me - hang on,” Spencer mutters, his eyebrows knitting together, his cheeks going even redder as he curls close to Brendon, ducking in and barely pressing their lips together, their mouths just brushing. Brendon’s lips part automatically, but Spencer keeps the touch light, barring Brendon from pressing forward. He slides his lips down, tracing the warm line of Brendon’s, ending at the corner of his mouth and staying there for a second or two.

“ _Spence_ ,” Brendon whines, trying to tug him down into another sloppy kiss. Spencer rolls his eyes a little and resists, laughing a little as Brendon squawks and starts tugging on his coat collar. “Come onnnn.”

“Cut it out,” Spencer huffs, poking his fingers into Brendon’s ribs, even as he tucks him in a little closer. He moves his thumb up, dragging it over Brendon’s lower lip, back and then forth, watching interestedly at the way the skin tugs a little before it slides away. Brendon goes still, his eyes dark and wide behind his glasses, and Spencer’s breathing goes a little unsteady as a pink flicker of tongue presses to the pad of his thumb. He swallows and leans in a little, pausing to make sure Brendon isn’t planning on mauling him once he gets there, and finally fits his mouth over Brendon’s, moving his thumb out of the way. 

Brendon tenses for a second, and then sinks into him with a ridiculous little sigh. pressing close enough that Spencer can feel the rise and fall of his chest against his own. It makes his hands shake a little, but he covers it by kissing Brendon’s top lip, staying there close-mouthed for a moment before dragging his lips along Brendon’s jaw.

“Who taught you how to _do_ this?” Brendon murmurs, sounding almost drugged, tilting his head helpfully as Spencer reaches back near his ear. He figures that that’s a rhetorical question, though, so he doesn’t answer. The thin skin near Brendon’s ear smells like shaving gel and faded cologne, familiar and comfortable, and Spencer noses and licks and sucks at Brendon’s neck there until he’s kind of a shivering wreck, tugging on Spencer’s coat and pleading _kiss me kiss me kiss me_ under his breath.

“Damn it, Spence,” Brendon whimpers, squirming just enough to be able to curl his leg around Spencer’s back, squeezing him a little with his knobbly knees as he lets his head fall back on his shoulders. “Holy fuck, you need to - “

And yeah, that’s about Spencer’s breaking point - he can feel Brendon _twined_ around him, twined and shaking, and he pulls away from Brendon’s neck and tugs his head back up, kissing him thoroughly.

Brendon shudders, and kisses back just as hard, and Spencer groans a little as Brendon’s tongue flicks against his lip, testing but not immediately diving in. _It can be taught,_ he thinks to himself, just before Brendon hums contentedly around Spencer’s lower lip and it kind of fucking blows his mind. 

Somehow Brendon’s maneuvered so that he’s basically straddling Spencer like a backwards chair, alternately squeezing Spencer between his thighs and trying to get _closer_ , like they can’t already feel each other’s rocketing heartbeats in like half a dozen places at once. They’ve basically progressed to trying to eat each other’s faces. Spencer regrets nothing.

And then there’s a moment where Brendon gives up trying to tug Spencer closer by his coat and goes for his hair instead. ...Spencer didn’t really know, he doesn’t have any prior experience in that area, but apparently that’s a _thing_ for him. So he yelps and clutches at Brendon and goes very very still as he tries not to come in his jeans.

Brendon freezes as well, and gives him a nervous little grin, loosening the hand in his hair and petting it gently as he pulls far enough away to actually see him. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Spencer manages, his voice only a tiny bit strained. “Just, y’know. Hanging out for a second. Enjoying the ambience. The atmosphere.”

“The hand on my ass,” Brendon adds, smirking a tiny, tiny bit. Spencer raises his eyebrows, and yep, look at that - he does seem to be groping Brendon pretty firmly. He squeezes his hand, pleased at the way Brendon jolts at that. “Hey,” he frowns, fidgeting a little as Spencer doesn’t exactly remove his hand immediately. Spencer’s fingers twitch, and almost squeeze a little harder. “Spence, what’re you,” he starts, squirming a little and biting his lip.

“Shit, Bren, you’ve really got to hold still,” Spencer gasps, reaching down to grab not another handful of Brendon’s ass, but underneath, hooking just under where his thighs end and pretty much lifting Brendon bodily a few crucial inches off his lap and, more importantly, away from his dick.

“No, Spence, you - nnnh, _fuck_ ,” Brendon gasps, his arms tightening around Spencer’s shoulders for a second before he shudders and press his face into Spencer’s neck. 

“What?” Spencer asks, worried. Brendon groans and shakes his head, and then his thigh muscles twitch a little against Spencer’s sides and Spencer suddenly realizes _shit, holy shit_ \- Brendon’s dick is totally hard and poking him in the stomach.

He swallows and glances up at Brendon, whose cheeks are bright red. His mouth, though - Spencer gets distracted by the state of Brendon’s lips, flushed and swollen and bitten red, and he feels this weird hot stab of possessive pride in that. _He_ made that happen. Brendon is twitching and antsy and fucking hard as a rock for _him_.

Spencer exhales, sharp, and dives back in to kiss him, pulling Brendon up against his chest, squeezing his fingers into the backs of his thighs. Brendon squeaks and kisses back, letting out a small, shaky little moan as he tightens his arms around Spencer’s shoulders and rocks against him, an aborted little twist of his hips before he’s too embarrassed to keep going.

Spencer shivers and kisses him, kneading his fingers a little before his arms start to go a little wobbly and he has to settle Brendon back down onto his lap. It takes Brendon all of three seconds to realize Spencer’s in exactly the same boat he is, and he accidentally bites Spencer’s lip when he notices, making an apologetic noise. Spencer’s eyes threaten to roll back into his head and he wonders, wildly, _holy shit, am I about to lose my virginity in a side street off Chicago Ave? Bad. ASS._

“Fuck, Spence,” Brendon hisses, his hips moving jerkily in Spencer’s lap as they both fight a fraught battle between nerves and the biological imperative to come in their pants. Spencer licks at the raw place on his lip where Brendon bit him and _shakes_ at the bolt of pleasurepain that shocks through him. He squeezes his hands on Brendon’s hips and basically grinds him down, using his added leverage to set up a rhythm for them to - 

“B, your one o’clock’s - oh holy _crap_ ,” Dallon squawks, quickly letting go of the door handle to slap both hands over his eyes. “Oh crap. Ohhhh geez. Sorry guys, whoa.”

Spencer just blinks up at him for the first moment or two, completely dazed, unable to process what’s happened and why there’s suddenly a Dallon outside with them. Luckily, on top of him, Brendon is having no such trouble. He’s squirming embarrassedly, trying to fix his and Spencer’s hair, smacking Spencer’s hands off his hips until finally Spencer lets go.

He frowns when Brendon slides off his lap, and winces as he has to casually rearrange the folds of his coat. The fog is really slow in lifting off of his brain, though. “Hey, Dallon,” he finally offers, giving him a wave.

Dallon is still kind of averting his eyes, but he doesn’t look so traumatized now that Brendon’s standing. “Hey, Spence,” he says gamely, shooting a smile in his general vicinity. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“No, _we’re_ sorry,” Brendon interrupts, giving Spencer a worried look. Spencer raises an unamused eyebrow back. “That wasn’t - I mean, we weren’t actually _doing_ \- “

“I really don’t need any details,” Dallon says. He and Brendon seem to be competing to see who can blush the hardest.

“Well.” Brendon rubs the back of his head bashfully. “Sorry.”

“ _I’m_ not sorry,” Spencer mutters mutinously, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. He doesn’t miss the interested little look Brendon shoots him, at that, so he doesn’t feel very bad about smirking.

“Dallon, I’ll be right behind you,” Brendon says, holding the back door open with his hip, giving him his very best responsible worker smile. “Tell Jason to give me two minutes, okay?”

Dallon shoots them both a suspicious little look, and sighs. “Okay. _Two minutes_. And if you’re not in here, Brendon, I’m coming back outside with a blindfold on and a flippin’ bucket of ice water, I swear.”

Spencer _can’t stop himself_ : “Kinky,” he drawls, having to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the horrified look Dallon gives him. Dallon points a threatening finger at both of them, waggling it a little like a schoolmarm, before the back door closes again and Brendon sags against it, looking rumpled and kind of stressed.

“Jesus Christ,” Brendon mutters. He starts going through his pockets, finding a lighter first, but Spencer hops up onto his feet and intercepts him, dragging his hands out of his pockets and twisting their fingers together. Brendon glares at him. “You are so fucking stressful, holy shit.”

Spencer snorts, but doesn’t bother responding; just crowds Brendon up against the door for a little bit, until he loses some of the tension in his shoulders and slumps against him. “That’s _really_ not how I imagined that happening,” Spencer admits after a moment. “Not that I was complaining, or anything.”

“Yeah, no,” Brendon agrees, laughing softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll, um. I’ll see you at home.”

“Okay,” Spencer says, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go of it. He ducks to give Brendon a very chaste kiss on the cheek, in case Dallon comes busting outside again. “I’ll get something for dinner.”

“Not Mexican,” Brendon requests, leaning into the kiss a little, straightening Spencer’s coat front. He opens the door, and gives Spencer a rueful smile. “...I have to go and teach guitar now. You’re such a dick.”

Spencer grins, heartened, and tries not to look too pleased. “I...have to pretend to be interested in political science in an hour and a half?” he offers. 

“Weak, Spencer Smith,” Brendon tells him. “See you tonight.”

“Go teach some shit,” Spencer orders him, buttoning up his coat again, giving Brendon a quick grin. 

“Go learn some shit,” Brendon shoots back, smirking at how Spencer flips him off, responding by blowing kisses. He finally ducks into the back room, but not before Spencer can hear him and Dallon arguing as the door shuts. 

Spencer turns and shoulders his bag, and starts heading back towards the main street, popping his collar up against the blasts of wind. He’s halfway to the bus stop when his phone goes off: _thanks for the unexpected coffee and boner, this kid prob thinks im a perv_

He grins, and quickly thumbs in _i’m going with “the electoral college really does it for me” if anybody asks_ , pressing send.

_unhhh baby tell me the difference between republics and democracies again_

Spencer rolls his eyes and laughs, and puts his phone in his pocket. He can see the bus heading his way, so he starts digging his cta pass out of his wallet.


	5. Chapter 5

Spencer gets off the bus a stop before he should, just so that he has enough time in the wind and cold to guarantee that he’s not going to be risking violating any obscenity clauses with a massive erection. By the time he reaches the L station, he’s good to go as far as boners, but his thoughts are getting decidedly deep and anxiety-inducing.

He’s still got over an hour til his class starts. He’s pretty sure Ryan’s somewhere on campus; he could, ostensibly, get back to DePaul and then bribe Ryan with free coffee to hang out with him, but...he’s pretty sure that after what happened in the alley, he needs to just go ahead and have this anxiety attack and get it over with. 

So instead of swiping his pass and going through the turnstile, Spencer heads back out of the station and ducks into the McDonalds across the street, biting nervously at the corner of his lip as he waits in line for a minute or two. He orders a coffee and loads it down with sugar and creamer, and then he finds a corner booth that isn’t taken, and he slides onto the plastic seat, trying to tune out the conversations and kids shrieking around him as he hunkers down for the duration.

He really hates even acknowledging the fact that, yeah, he’s had a thing for Brendon almost since they met. He hates it a lot, because it just makes him feel _stupid_. Stupid and kind of hopeless. 

This is how it went: he and Brendon met when Brent dragged him to one of their “jam sessions” (trans: everybody pretended to play half a song, drank a lot of Mountain Dew and talked about hot girls at school), and a week later the two of them had gotten into an argument about the merits of Thundercats versus Transformers, and that was it. Brendon had just smiled at him, trained big brown eyes on him, and that was all it really took. He was gone.

There were a couple of awful months back when he was a junior in high school, when it was the worst, when he didn’t trust himself to hang out with Brent and Ryan and Brendon and everyone without blushing or saying something dumb or just not saying anything, so he kind of stuck close to home. Ryan still refers to it as That Time Spencer Died, and at the moment Spencer would give anything to go back to that, hiding out in his room or in the kitchen with his mom, where it was safe.

Instead, he’s hiding in a McDonalds, completely paralyzed because he’s an eighteen year old married virgin. And he proposed to his husband because he might have a broken ankle. He’s pretty sure these types of things don’t happen to other people.

He really thought he had a better handle on things. He’d gone months without feeling that familiar, nauseating rush of _oh shit you’re so perfect_ that he used to get around Brendon every damn day, back in Vegas. He’d been getting so much better, he was _almost there_ to where it was completely over, and then he’d fucked it up by thinking it was done and now it’s worse than ever because now he’s not just lying to _himself_. He’s lying to fucking everybody.

He takes a couple of slow, deep breaths to try to keep his breathing steady, and takes a sip of coffee, staring down at his twitchy, shaking fingers. He’s fucking married. Brendon is his _husband_. Brendon fucking married him, thinking that Spencer was just being a control freak and a good _friend_ , and that’s the thought that makes Spencer’s cheeks burn with shame. He should have known better than to think he could just do this and be fine.

God, he almost had sex with Brendon in the back alley behind his _work_. Spencer presses his fingers to his cheek, hard, feeling his whole face light on fire as he replays the last few minutes of Brendon’s break. It’s so much worse now, he feels so gross, he really didn’t think it was possible to feel this awful about himself. Brendon’s one of his best friends, and Spencer’s been using him to fuel this...this fucking ridiculous need to turn his life into a rom-com.

He swallows, hard, against the nausea building up in his stomach. He can’t keep just using Brendon like he has been. He just needs to - he needs a plan. He needs to get Brendon’s ankle fixed, and he needs to get him some new glasses, and he needs to make sure Brendon gets enough Claritin to get him through allergy season. And he needs to just - he should probably rethink their rule about making out, because he can’t keep kissing Brendon. That way lies madness. Plus, at this point, he doesn’t trust himself not to just climb on Brendon’s dick and refuse to get off until Brendon loves him back.

Spencer sighs, and thunks his head on the table a couple of times, and then digs his phone out of his coat pockets. _i am such a fuckup_ , he sends to Ryan, taking a few sips of his coffee as he slumps down in his seat and waits for an answer. It take almost two minutes for Ryan to reply.

_news at eleven._

Spencer rolls his eyes, but does feel a bit better, despite himself. _well it was a shock to ME_

_don’t know why, ive been telling you youre an idiot for years_

_welp. thanks for the pep talk ross. eat a bowl of dicks._

_why the self-loathing? usually my area._

_no real reason i guess_ Spencer lies, frowning as he takes another long gulp of coffee. _just blah._

_you is kind you is smart you is important_

Spencer chokes on his mouthful of coffee, but manages to swallow all of it. It’s almost empty, so he tilts it back, finishes it off before standing. _again, bowl of dicks. whens your last class over_

_four. walk me home, fuckup. carry my books_

_k. meet me outside the library then._ Spencer stuffs his phone back into his pocket and tugs his bag over his head. He’s still feeling twinges, random shocks of shame that crackle across him, but not as sharply as before. He figures that’s the best he’s going to get, right now.

At least he’s not pretending anymore. At least the blinders are off. He shoulders the door open and hunches against the wind, tucking his hands back into his pockets as he hurries the few feet down the sidewalk to the L station. He clatters down the stairs and fishes his pass out of his pocket, and then heads inside to wait for the train. He still has enough time to figure out how to handle Brendon and kissing and the date he agreed to. 

 

Poli Sci is predictably boring, and Ryan is pretentious, so after four Spencer finds himself being herded towards the Red Line again, taking it downtown and having to walk for forever to get to the Chicago History Museum. Monday’s their free admission day and they’re open til late - some beginning of the semester attempt to bump their numbers or something. 

For his part, Ryan’s pretty quiet all the way there. He’s just come from a poetry class, which Spencer thinks is probably a major contributing factor. Spencer doesn’t mind; it gives him an opportunity to mull over the events of the day. His ipod has decided to exacerbate an already broody situation and has been playing a lot of Ryan Adams. It’s still trying to kill him, Spencer’s pretty sure.

The Chicago History Museum is also trying to kill him. Almost as soon as they get inside, Ryan makes an interested noise and immediately gravitates towards the exhibit called “Out In Chicago.” And it _is_ interesting, Spencer will give it that. He had no idea that Chicago had the country’s first leather bar. 

But then there’s a [drawing](http://www.flickr.com/photos/chicagohistory/5513366374/) that makes him pause, makes him stop in a way none of the others have done because it’s - he _recognizes_ it. He recognizes himself in it, in the way the two guys are just leaning into each other, hanging out on the train. He recognizes himself in the fingers splayed protectively on one man’s shoulder, the easy camaraderie.

“Oh, hey,” Ryan murmurs beside him, and Spencer glances over - Ryan’s got both eyebrows raised in pleased surprise at the drawing, and for a second, Spencer wonders what Ryan’s seeing there.

Ryan turns, smiling a little, and bumps his hip gently. “You,” he says under his breath, pointing to the figure on the left, and “Brendon,” he finishes, pointing to the figure on the right. 

Spencer knows he’s blushing. He ducks his head and bumps Ryan’s hip back. “Shut up,” he mutters, folding his arms around his middle, suddenly defensive. Beside him, Ryan doesn’t move, and when Spencer finally looks up, he notices that Ryan’s giving him this indulgent grin. “Oh god, what.”

“The best moments are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by somebody else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours,” he says, obviously reciting something from the way he’s tilted his head and is rocking on his heels a little. 

Spencer blinks at him. It’s so weird, when Ryan has these moments of saying the exact right thing at the exact right moment, and they always catch Spencer off-guard. He’s much more at home with the Ryan who rants about Spaghetti-os and makes dick jokes. “What’s that from?” he asks, still feeling completely off-balance.

“Google it, bitch,” Ryan tells him easily, smacking his arm with a brochure and sauntering past him to the next piece. Spencer watches him go, and then looks back at the drawing for a long moment, trying to memorize everything about it.

They spend an hour at the museum. Before they go, Spencer drags Ryan into the gift shop and doesn’t leave until he finds a postcard of the two guys on the train.

 

After the art museum and classes, neither Spencer nor Ryan feel like dealing with dinner, so they argue about which option on GrubHub is the best. Ryan’s determined to make chinese happen, but Spencer argues for most of the 22 bus that chopsticks are way too much work and that they should just get pizza. 

Finally, once they’re on the 65 bus, they give up and Spencer texts Brendon: _chinese or pizza for dinner?_

Thirty seconds later, he has a response. _who’s gonna be mad at me if i decide what_

Spencer snorts and shows Ryan, for full disclosure, and makes sure Ryan can see his response so he has no call to bitch, later. _i want pizza, ryan wants chinese. i wont be mad just disappointed_

“That’s not _fair_!” Ryan squawks, rolling his eyes when the lady across the aisle glares at him. He immediately whips his phone out and starts texting furiously, which Spencer supposes adds to the delay in Brendon’s response. It takes him almost five minutes to get back another text: _going with pizza also tell ryan im not afraid of him and if i kill him in his sleep you cant be called as a witness against me_

Spencer smirks and holds up his phone screen to Ryan, who’s glowering fiercely. “I hate you both,” Ryan fumes after he reads it, and he immediately goes back to texting.

“It’s nice to be nice, Ryan,” Spencer singsongs, thumbing _ <3 _ into his phone and pressing SEND before he remembers he really shouldn’t. 

 

They wait until Brendon gets home before they order the pizza, and it only takes 15 minutes to decide on toppings instead of their usual 45, mostly because as soon as Brendon shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes, he curled up almost on Spencer’s lap on the couch and demanded that Spence make all their decisions for the rest of the night.

Ryan’s still sort of purple with rage, but Spencer’s pretty sure that when he sees the order of boneless wings they got along with the pizzas, he and Brendon will be forgiven.

He’s not certain, but he’s pretty sure Brendon had kind of a rough day at work - Brendon’s been telling them about it, but he’s been talking pretty much into the fabric of Spencer’s cardigan, which means that Spencer’s only picked up about half of what he’s saying.

He’s really doing a bang-up job at his resolution to be less touchy-feely with Brendon. Though he figures that going from dry-humping in an alley to very innocently petting Brendon’s hair is a step in the right direction.

“Was Dallon okay?” Spencer asks quietly, after they’ve turned on the tv and Ryan’s gotten involved in an episode of Law & Order. He raises his eyebrows when Brendon lifts his head enough to look at him, and winces when Brendon sighs and cuddles closer.

“Yeah, he was fine,” Brendon murmurs, reaching up to tug the afghan off the back of the couch and onto his legs. “Just gave me some shit and made me do inventory on the World section.”

Spencer frowns a little, reaches down to rub Brendon’s back lightly. “Need me to kick his ass?” he asks, and then he realizes that he’s touching Brendon a lot more than he needs to be. He freezes, but then Brendon makes a complaining noise into his neck, so Spencer sighs and starts rubbing his back again. 

The pizza comes, and Ryan’s eyes go wide and happy when he sees the box of wings, so Spencer figures he and Brendon are safe for the time being. Ryan even magnanimously allows Spencer and Brendon one wing each, before he starts making short work of them, still staring raptly at the tv screen as Christopher Meloni chews his way through a bunch of scenery. 

Spencer picks off all the black olives on his pizza and puts them on Brendon’s, and Brendon wordlessly hands over his crusts when he’s done. Spencer puts away the leftovers in the fridge and tries to at least start on _Hamlet_ when he comes back, but his brain is having none of it, even when Brendon offers to read some of the parts out with him.

“It’s dead,” Spencer complains, pointing at his forehead. 

“Known it for years,” Ryan says, not looking away from the tv.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and leans over enough to brush Spencer’s hair off his forehead and bump his lips there. “Go get ready for bed,” he orders, giving Spencer a massively insincere scowl when Spencer resists letting Brendon tug the book out of his hands. “Spence.”

“But,” Spencer whines, before he realizes that he really doesn’t want to be trying to read _Hamlet_ anyway, so why the fuck is he arguing? He grumbles a little just for appearances, but then shuffles off towards the bathroom, brushing his teeth before he heads for the bedroom.

There’s a little twist in his stomach that’s not really going away, because he’s a little bit worried that Brendon’s going to, like, want an encore performance of the alley now that they’re at home and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the willpower to say no. He changes into pyjamas, though, and crawls into bed and doesn’t bother turning off the bedside lamp, just curls away from it, watching the shadows play on the wall.

Outside the closed bedroom door, he can hear Brendon and Ryan arguing with each other in the living room. They’re not yelling, so he doesn’t really feel it necessary to intervene, but Brendon’s retreating closer to the bedroom, close enough that he can hear _just fucking stay out of it, Ross_ before the door opens and Brendon slips inside. He doesn’t _slam_ the door, but Spencer still winces at the echoing bang it makes when it closes, and he turns over, squinting against the light up at Brendon. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sort of scratchy.

“You want to tell him to lay off?” Brendon snarls as he tugs his shirt up over his head, tossing it on the floor frustratedly. Spencer rubs his eyes, and watches half-interestedly as Brendon shimmies out of his jeans and just tugs on a ratty old t-shirt and kicks the old clothes towards the hamper. “Fuckhead.”

Spencer frowns, and sighs. “Sorry. What’s he doing?”

Brendon shakes his head, still looking upset, and heads out of the room towards the bathroom. Spencer can hear the sound of him brushing his teeth, and he closes his eyes, slumping back onto his pillow as he tries to figure out how to tactfully tell Ryan to stop fucking meddling.

A couple of minutes later, he hears the bedroom door close, and then the mattress dips and shifts as Brendon climbs on. Spencer shivers and stretches as the blankets move around him, but then there’s the new sensation of added weight and skin and heat against him, almost on _top_ of him, and Spencer’s eyes snap open just as Brendon kisses him.

He really hopes the shocked squeaking sound he makes is completely muffled by Brendon’s mouth, because otherwise he’s going to be really embarrassed. He kisses back instinctively for a few seconds before remembering _shit, wait, fake fairy tale_ and his freakout earlier that day at a McDonalds, and he fidgets shamefully and tries to pull away. “Wait, you - “ he manages, before Brendon’s mouth covers his own again, kissing him hot and wet.

It’s distracting.

A minute or so later, Spencer tries again. “Brendon, hold on,” he gasps, pulling away and ducking his chin quickly, so Brendon can’t follow him. It doesn’t work - Brendon just huffs irritatedly and kisses his neck instead. “No, hey - oh _hhh_ , jesus fuck,” Spencer whimpers, craning a little into B’s mouth. 

“Hands,” Brendon mutters, his breath hot on Spencer’s skin. Spencer blinks, his hands automatically freezing where they’re fisting into the underside of his pillow fitfully. “Where’re your - you should - shit,” he stumbles, pausing to press his face against Spencer’s neck. “I want, um.”

A brief, silent pause settles over them, long enough for Spencer to freak out and then _realize_ what Brendon’s after, and then he goes warm all over. He unfreezes, pulls his hands away from his pillow and resettles them firm on Brendon’s sides, feeling his ribs expand and contract with his breaths. “Okay?” he asks, rubbing his hand over B’s shirt.

“Yeah,” Brendon sighs, slumping onto him a little, humming happily when Spencer splays his fingers at Brendon’s waist, covering as much skin as he can. _Huh, cool,_ Spencer thinks, before Brendon cranes back up to kiss him, wet and dirty, and his brain shuts off. He accidentally twists a hand up in Brendon’s shirt a minute later, and Brendon’s breath hitches deep in his chest and he licks into Spencer’s mouth and Spencer’s eyes flutter shut, because _damn_.

He doesn’t even really notice he’s doing it, he’s so caught up in the way Brendon’s kissing him. When Brendon finally pulls away to nip and lick down his neck, Spencer opens his eyes, staring dazedly up at the ceiling, and suddenly realizes that he’s somehow twisted his legs around til Brendon’s cradled up between them, his thighs squeezing around Brendon’s ribcage. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, and his eyes squeeze shut in the next second as he notices that Brendon’s rocking against him, gently, a slow roll of his hips that barely move them together. And of course, that’s the moment Brendon chooses to bite down on the skin of Spencer’s neck he’d been licking, and Spencer gasps and moans, shockingly loud and broken in the little room.

“Goddammit,” he gasps, excruciatingly embarrassed, and he immediately tugs Brendon’s pillow up over his face. 

“Oh my god, are you _kidding_ ,” he hears Brendon whimper, and then he can feel him trying to tug the pillow away. Spencer’s pretty sure his entire head is just going to light on fire, like a matchstick, but eventually he lets Brendon pull the pillow away from his face and gives him an apologetic look. Except - holy shit - Brendon looks as startled as Spencer feels. “Spence, that was...” Brendon starts, before he licks his lips and just gives up, pressing up against him and kissing him feverishly. Spencer shudders and squirms a little on the bed, and jolts as he figures out that _hey_ that is totally Brendon’s dick rubbing against him.

Brendon whines into his mouth, still gripping the pillow for a few seconds before his hand sneaks over and finds Spencer’s. He twines their fingers together; Spencer can feel Brendon’s knuckles pressing hard against his own. All of him is overheating; between the blankets and his blushing and the heat pouring off of Brendon, it’s like eight thousand degrees in the room. 

“Oh, jesus,” he gasps, pulling away long enough to mouth at Brendon’s jawline. He fidgets a little more because Brendon’s hand is pinning down his shirt, and then he gets to Brendon’s ear and sucks his earlobe, and Brendon yelps and just fucking _grinds_ against him, both of them clutching at each other and shaking, they’re so turned on.

“God,” Brendon groans, and Spencer nods a little in agreement, sort of lightheaded, and his hands slide underneath his shirt, skating over Brendon’s sweaty back. Brendon makes this shocked little _oh_ sound, and then pulls back just enough to kiss him and then try to flail out of his shirt. “Ow, um.”

Spencer barely ducks in time to avoid being elbowed in the face. “Hang on, hang on,” he hisses, having to bite his lip _hard_ to keep from giggling at how stupid Brendon looks like this, trying to fidget out of the fabric currently engulfing his head. “Dude, you’re totally on top of _my_ shirt, I can’t even - “

“Shit, fuck,” Brendon growls, trying to flap his right hand free of its cotton shackle. Spencer winces and tries to dive for it, but nope, he’s pinned underneath Brendon, so all he can do is watch helplessly as Brendon knocks the bedside lamp off the table. It shatters on the floor, and the room is instantly thrown into darkness. “...fuck,” Brendon mutters, a few beats later.

Spencer can’t quite avoid the giggles he’d been managing to suppress up to that point, and he finally wrenches free of Brendon’s weight, just in time to help him untangle himself from his shirt. “Good job,” he whispers, still laughing.

“Shut up,” Brendon hisses back, though he’s starting to shake from giggling as well. “Oh my god. Fuck that lamp, seriously.”

“The lamp had it coming,” Spencer snickers, grinning, as his eyes finally train themselves against the dark of the room and he can see Brendon’s outline hovering over him; the glitter of his eyes and his smile. “Oh, hey.”

“There you are,” Brendon says, sounding weirdly _relieved_ , and Spencer snorts and rubs his shoulder, his hand still twisted up under Brendon’s shirt. The lights from outside are casting a soft blue pall on the objects in the room, just barely catching the bed, but there’s enough light for Spencer to see enough to tilt his chin up, crane up to press their lips together, gently. He can feel Brendon’s breathing hitch, the way his mouth moves. And then Brendon tugs away, hovering over him for a long moment before he bites his lip and smiles, sort of bashful. His arms are shaking from where they’re holding him up, Spencer can feel them trembling, so he looks down, slides his hands down to wrap his hands around Brendon’s forearms for added support. “Spencer,” he hears Brendon breathe, and he can’t quite look up. “Hey, hey.”

“Hey,” he murmurs back, sliding his hands up to lock around Brendon’s elbows, wincing when he realizes it’s not really helping the shaking. He feels Brendon’s breath on his forehead, and then a couple of shivery thrusts as B tries to get back their momentum. Spencer quakes, his hips giving a quick little involuntary twist, but Brendon’s shaking _so badly_ and there’s a part of him that’s still nauseated at the idea of using him for a nonexistent fairy tale, that he looks up, and squeezes his legs tight enough around Brendon that he can’t move. “Hey, c’mere,” he breathes, tugging on Brendon’s arms until he gets the idea and gingerly lowers himself down til he’s lying on Spencer’s chest, still shaking. Spencer bites his lip, and rubs Brendon’s arms gently, trying to figure out what the hell to do. “...Wow, twice in one day,” he eventually says. “We’re overachievers.”

“Fuckin’ blue balls,” Brendon groans, turning to press his face into Spencer’s chest, sighing as Spencer rubs over his shoulders. “Killing me.”

“Killing _you_?” Spencer protests, whining a little as he untangles his legs from Brendon’s and stretches them out - he was less than two minutes away from a charlie horse, he’s pretty sure. “Blue balls _and_ you busted my lamp. How the hell d’you think I feel?”

At that, Brendon props his head up and waggles his eyebrows, giving Spencer a ridiculous leer. “Oh, I _know_ how you feel, baby,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up Spencer’s thigh til he snorts and whacks his arm. Brendon just grins, and rests his cheek back down on Spencer’s chest, closing his eyes. “...Is it. I mean. um.”

“Use your words,” Spencer mumbles, running a hand through Brendon’s hair.

“Fuck you. Those are my words,” Brendon huffs, before he reaches up to hold onto Spencer’s arm, feel it work. “I was trying to say that, like. If you don’t want to. It’s, um.”

“I’m not a mail-order bride?” Spencer supplies wryly. He tugs on a piece of Brendon’s hair, and sighs, closing his eyes as he tries to figure out what to say to that. _No, I want to have sex with you. All of it. All of the sex. Forever. Until one of us is pregnant and we have to go on Oprah._ “I want...um.” _A house and a dog and dinner parties. Six kids and a white picket fence. ...Okay, no, gross._ Spencer bites his lip and shrugs. “I dunno. Can we go on a couple of dates or whatever, and make sure we’re not going to re-break your ankle or anything?”

Brendon props his head back up and raises an eyebrow, giving him a _you haven’t fooled me_ look. Spencer huffs and fidgets, feeling caught out, but after a long moment, Brendon gives him a little smile and reaches down to tangle their fingers together. “Don’t want you feeling too easy,” he teases, rubbing his thumb across Spencer’s palm. “I can’t just _marry_ you, I’ve gotta take you on dates.”

“Damn straight,” Spencer says, tilting his chin. “I’ve got to be wooed.”

“High maintenance,” Brendon sighs regretfully, carefully sliding off of Spencer and edging his way over to the end of the bed. Spencer raises his eyebrows, propping up on his elbows, as Brendon picks his way over to the desk and turns on the lamp there. Spencer squints at the sudden burst of light in the room, has to blink against it for a minute.

“What? Watch out for the broken glass.”

“Yeah, I know. And what do you think, _what_?” Brendon huffs, though he does starts blushing as he sidles towards the wardrobe. “I can’t sleep now, I’ve got to go jerk off in the shower.”

“Oh.” Spencer immediately starts blushing too, and looks away because damn it he really didn’t need that sudden flash of imagery. 

“Yep, well,” Brendon says, grabbing another t-shirt and a pair of boxers, “your fault.”

Spencer shoots him a halfhearted glare. “Well don’t fucking take forever or use all the hot water,” he says sulkily, drawing his knees up.

Brendon stares at him for a couple of seconds before pointing an accusing finger at him. “I’m making a _will_. If I die from a permanent boner, you don’t get any of my shit.”

Spencer can’t help it, he snorts and grins at that, and is actually pathetically relieved when Brendon gives him a smile back.

“AND THEY SAY ROMANCE IS DEAD,” Ryan shouts through the wall from his room. Spencer waits until Brendon’s given him another sheepish grin and absconded to the shower before he tugs Brendon’s pillow back over his head, because _jesus_. His life.

 

On Thursday, Spencer manages to cram a four-hour opening shift and his two classes in before noon. He hops from one foot to the other as he waits for the bus, and debates just jogging home, because he has about an hour before he and Brendon are supposed to leave for the first doc appointment, and there’s going to be paperwork to fill out and Spencer needs to find his insurance cards and Brendon’s probably not out of _bed_ yet. 

He fiddles with the keys and opens the door to the apartment, greeted by a blast of heat that is equal parts comforting and maddening because _damn it, Ryan_ , they do actually have to pay for utilities. He can hear Brendon singing, loud and obnoxious, in the bedroom, though. So that’s something.

“Hey,” he yells, as he toes off his work shoes and shucks off his coat and scarf. “We have to leave soon.”

“I know,” Brendon calls back, and Spencer moves back into the apartment, tossing his backpack onto the sofa before he wanders into the bedroom and collapses face-first on the bed. Brendon’s shirtless and rummaging around in the closet, so Spencer only groans into the pillow for a few seconds before he turns his head to watch.

Brendon’s singing along to Foster the People on his ipod, which is enough to inspire mockery usually, but Spencer just lolls his head back against the pillow and taps out a counter-beat on his thighs for a few measures. “How cold is it outside? Balls-ass fucking cold, or just fucking cold?” Brendon asks him, pursing his lips as he tries to decide between a grey henley and a nondescript black band t-shirt.

“Just fucking cold,” Spencer yawns. “I was out in a coat and a scarf and I was fine.”

“Ooh. _Balmy_ ,” Brendon teases, doing a little shuffle-step over to the bed so that he can crane over and press a smacking kiss to Spencer’s cheek. Spencer snorts and pushes at his shoulder ineffectually, until Brendon spins away and gives him ridiculous seductive look, choosing the band t-shirt. 

“I still have to find the fucking insurance cards,” Spencer whines, tugging a corner of the comforter up over himself. He silently debates the merits of taking a half-hour nap, but then decides that trying to get Brendon to be quiet for 30 minutes isn’t worth the effort.

“Got ‘em,” Brendon says, gesturing to the small pile of his shit on the desk. He returns Spencer’s suspicious glare with an innocent look, and shrugs. “You keep the important stuff in your accordion file. It wasn’t hard.”

“That’s what she said,” Spencer says automatically. Then he groans, and tugs a pillow over his head. 

“I’m such a good influence,” Brendon says smugly, tugging the t-shirt on. 

Spencer dozes for a few minutes, long enough for Brendon to finish getting dressed and putter around the kitchen. He comes back and smacks Spencer on the back of the thigh, and hands over a mug of coffee once Spencer’s whined and flopped onto his back.

Spencer sits up and curls his hands around the mug, keeping his eyes mostly closed as he takes a long sip. “You know where the office is, right?” Brendon asks, taking a gulp of his own coffee.

“It’s on Diversey. Near school,” Spencer nods, taking another sip of coffee. “How’s your ankle?”

“Fine,” Brendon says automatically, giving Spencer a sheepish look once he sees the unimpressed look he’s getting. “It’s still kinda sore, but it’s not swollen or anything. And the bruises are fading.”

“Uh huh,” Spencer says, completely unconvinced. He leans his head back against the wall. “Oh, remind me to tell them about allergies and shit so that they get you some Claritin or something.”

“I don’t really think January is allergy season,” Brendon snorts, coming over to poke at Spencer’s legs until he scoots them over enough for Brendon to sit down. Spencer bites his lip, and takes another sip of coffee as Brendon hooks his arm under Spencer’s knee. 

“Just in case,” Spencer mumbles, looking down at his mug. 

“Always looking at the big picture,” Brendon says solemnly. He swirls his coffee around in his mug, inspecting it carefully, and then he dips his thumb down into it. Spencer watches curiously as Brendon taps his thumb against the rim of the mug, and then Brendon stretches forward, brushing Spencer’s hair away from his face to swipe his coffee-wet thumb over his forehead. “ _Simba_ ,” Brendon whispers. 

Spencer blinks. “You are so weird.” He reaches up to wipe his forehead irritably, and scoots out of bed, heading towards the bathroom to wash his face and fix his hair. “How long til we have to leave?” he calls.

“Ten minutes,” Brendon yells back. “Don’t bother making yourself too cute, it’s just gonna be a waiting room full of sick people.”

“Are you implying I’m not already cute?” Spencer calls, swiping astringent over his forehead and his nose, scrunching up his face in the mirror.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Brendon yells. “Just as beautiful as the day I married you.”

Spencer snorts, and brushes his teeth, trying to replace the coffee breath with spearmint instead, and comes out of the bathroom into the living room to see Brendon already wrapping his scarf around his head. Something deep in his stomach twists. “Do you have the insurance card and stuff?”

“In my bag,” Brendon nods, shrugging on his coat, letting Spencer knock his hands away so that Spencer can do up the buttons.

“Your ID?”

“Yup. In my wallet.”

“Your bus pass?”

“Spence.” Brendon grabs his hands, and doesn’t let go until Spencer gives him a sheepish look. “I’ve got this. We’re gonna be fine.” He squeezes his fingers around Spencer’s.

“Sorry,” Spencer murmurs. “I know.” He finishes the last button, and fixes Brendon’s coat collar, his hand lingering on the fabric until he reaches up to give Brendon’s cheek a little pinch, teasing. “Control freak.”

“That’s you,” Brendon nods solemnly, turning his head to bite after Spencer’s fingers. “Put your coat on, Smith. Take me to the doctor.”

“Yes, dear,” Spencer says, turning to grab his coat and scarf. He pretends not to watch Brendon tug his gloves on, and he covertly tucks an extra hat into his own messenger bag just in case B wants it later, and a few minutes later they’re out the door and Brendon’s locking it behind them. 

Spencer watches him carefully - there’s just a tiny hint of a limp now, but even that’s enough to be a concern, because he’s learned that Brendon has a pain tolerance usually reserved for self-immolating monks. Halfway down the street towards the bus stop, Spencer bites his lip and reaches for Brendon’s hand, carefully looking away as he tucks it in his own and tugs him close. Brendon doesn’t say anything, but he does twine their fingers together, not letting him go even when they get to the stop, even when the bus comes and they step on, dropping their passes into the machine and sidling down the aisle.

The doctor’s office is almost anticlimactic - they get there early so that they can fill out paperwork (Spencer tugs the clipboard away from Brendon as soon as they’re seated, curled up together in the waiting room that is - true to Brendon’s predictions - full of sick, uninterested Chicagoans), and Spencer waits patiently at the window as the receptionist calls the insurance company to make sure Brendon’s listed on Spencer’s plan. 

She spares one glance up at him, but only as she reads off Brendon’s date of birth. When she hangs up, she raises her eyebrows at him and then looks over at Brendon, who’s flipping through an ancient National Geographic and looking like a truant high schooler. Spencer can almost _see_ her mentally shrug. “Co-pay’s twenty-five,” she tells him, and Spencer nods and reaches for his wallet, feeling no small amount of victory as he hands the money over. 

She gives him a receipt, and looks once more at Brendon before giving Spencer a small smile. “We’ll try to get him back there fast as we can,” she says, almost apologetically, “since you guys had an appointment. Whooping cough outbreak at the high school, though, so.” She sucks her teeth, shrugs a shoulder.

“Thanks,” Spencer says, nodding.

“Welcome, honey,” she says, more kindly than Spencer’s used to, from the city. “We’ll call you back in a little bit. Just sit tight.”

Spencer can’t help the pleased little smile he gives her, or the way he tucks up against Brendon as he sits down again. Brendon wordlessly shifts to give Spencer a better view of the magazine he’s reading, and Spencer doesn’t think about sliding his arm across the back of Brendon’s chair until after he’s done it. There’s an article about different birds of paradise, and Brendon reads sections of it in a low, David Attenborough-style voice until Spencer starts giggling behind his hand.

The wait drags. A couple of people who are hacking, coughing wet and horrible behind their huge coats, are called in before they are and Spencer doesn’t have it in him to be annoyed - he’s mostly just glad they’re out of the waiting room. After half an hour, Brendon gives up on the Nat Geo and sets it down on an empty seat on the other side of him, and burrows down into Spencer’s side, pressing his cheek against his shoulder. “Tired?” he murmurs, rubbing Brendon’s shoulder idly.

“Kinda,” Brendon sighs. “Bad dreams, last night.”

Spencer tsks. “What kind?”

“Fucking zombies,” he grumbles, into Spencer’s coat. “I was stuck in the store, and there were zombies.”

“Gross.”

“Pretty much. I killed a bunch of them, though.”

“Of course you did,” Spencer agrees, still rubbing his arm. “Close your eyes.”

“Yeah, okay,” Brendon mutters, sinking down further against him. “We should get an axe or something, in case of zombies.”

“We should _not_ do that. We live with Ryan.”

“Good point,” Brendon yawns, as he settles and goes quiet, nestled into Spencer’s side. Spencer’s very careful not to move for the first few minutes, until Brendon’s breathing goes deep and steady, and then he gingerly gets his phone out of his coat pocket and starts sifting through apps to pass the time. 

He plays a couple of rounds of Words With Friends with Jon and Tom (Jon’s word: P-A-E-S-A-N-O, Tom’s word: B-O-O-B-S), and checks Crystal and Jackie’s facebook statuses (Jackie’s listed as “married” to some girl whose name he recognizes from their slumber parties when they were younger), and is reading through the Texts From Last Night twitter account when an RN opens the door to the back and calls out “Brendon, um...Oorie?”

“Urie,” Spencer automatically corrects, as he sits up a little straighter and jostles Brendon gently, until he fidgets and stirs. “Hey, B, you’re up.”

“Nooo,” Brendon grumps automatically, though he does open his eyes and start to stand before he’s ready, reaching a hand out to Spencer to steady himself. “Whoa.”

“Good job,” Spencer mutters, reaching over to grab Brendon’s bag and throw it over his shoulder along with his own as he stands. He puts a hand on the small of Brendon’s back as they head towards the door, and follows him past, holding his coat for him as B gets his temperature checked and his weight taken there by the nurses’ station. 

They finally get shown to a little exam room, and Spencer drops into the chair beside the big gurney-thing, watching as Brendon climbs up on it. “Want your coat?”

“Nah, m’good,” Brendon shrugs, taking stock of the room before he stretches out, giving Spencer a grin. “It’s been like four years since I’ve seen a doctor. This is kind of crazy.”

“Welcome to the magical world of medicine,” Spencer says dryly, snickering when Brendon starts to hum _Part Of Your World_ under his breath. Brendon turns on his side, and props his head on his hand, and starts actually singing the words, acting out the lyrics with increasingly expansive hand gestures until Spencer is in danger of choking on his laughter and is threatening him with bodily harm.

“ - _and why does it - what’s the word? Buuuuuuuuurn_!” Brendon croons, closing his eyes and painting an anguished expression on his face, reaching for Spencer and then pulling his hand back dramatically. 

“I will kill you, I swear to god, Brendon, I will fucking _end your life_ ,” Spencer hisses as he punches at Brendon’s thigh, trying to keep from giggling as he actually says the words.

Which is, of course, when the doctor shows up, right as Brendon’s getting ready to hit the high note on _that shore up above_ , so he cuts off halfway through a note and sounds like he’s getting strangled, and Spencer’s caught halfway into a smack to his leg. She blinks at them, and then sets her clipboard on the sink and smirks a little. “Oh, don’t let me stop you, is my niece’s favorite, too.” She gives Brendon a smile with way too many teeth to be entirely safe. “She’s three.”

Spencer chokes on his laughter and coughs, and Brendon promptly turns scarlet, and the doctor - who only looks about five years older than them, what the fuck - grabs the chair at the other end of the room and drags it closer, over to where Brendon’s pulling himself up into sitting. “Sorry, doctor,” Brendon mumbles, thoroughly abashed.

“Doctor Maja,” she supplies cheerfully, gesturing for Brendon to scoot to the end of the exam table. “And you’re Brendon?” she asks, waiting for Brendon to nod before she turns her gaze over to Spencer. “And...”

“Spencer,” he says, hunching down in his coat a little, giving her a game little smile and a wave. She’s, like, the hottest lady he’s ever been in the same room with, and it’s kind of fucking with his worldview. She asks Brendon to remove his shoe, and starts touching his fucked-up ankle, and Spencer doesn’t know if he should be feeling this weird combination of jealousy and _dude-congratulations-on-the-hot-lady-touching-you!_ chuffedness for Brendon. He kind of zones out for the next minute or so, until Brendon jumps and mutters a quiet _ow_ as Doctor Maja presses on a still-present bruise. Spencer winces and reaches up to rub his back.

“Well, it’s not broken, and none of the ligaments are torn, which is very good,” she pronounces a moment later. “You’ve been icing it and keeping it elevated?”

“Yeah? Kinda?” Brendon says, giving her a sheepish, whimsical smile. She’s not taken in, though, and gives him a stern look.

“Brendon. You _must_ try to - no, you’re useless. You’re going to try to do cartwheels tomorrow, I know the type.” She ignores Brendon’s spluttering and turns to Spencer. “It’s getting better, but it needs to be iced and kept elevated, especially at night. Also don’t let him do anything to put a lot of pressure on it. No marathons or mountain-climbing. You’ll make sure?”

Spencer nods, and then smirks over at Brendon, who’s looking sort of glum that he couldn’t charm his way past Doctor Maja (who is Spencer’s favorite fucking person in the _world_ right now). “Yeah, I’ll make sure.”

“Good. Now,” she says, turning back to Brendon, “stop sulking, and I’ll show you some exercises to make your ankle strong again.”

Spencer grins, and wishes he could surreptitiously photograph Brendon and Doctor Maja hopping around like goofs as she demonstrates and orders Brendon to follow, her talking about stuff like eversion and dorsiflexion as she shows Brendon how to draw the alphabet with his toe only by moving his ankle, and Brendon with an epic look of concentration on his face as he tries to follow suit.

His phone does actually buzz after a few minutes, and he has to rummage through about 12 different pockets in his bag before he realizes it’s in his coat pocket. Surprisingly, it’s a text message from Gabe: _whats the verdict on baby boy’s foot?_

Spencer can’t help but feel oddly pleased - he and Gabe are on friendly terms, but not especially close. He chalks it up to Brendon being Brendon, and therefore loved by everyone within a 20 foot radius at all times. _not broken, just sprained. thank fuck. hottie doc teaching him strengthening exercises. :)_

A reply is less than 30 seconds in coming: _saw a porno like that once. suggest hot meat injection >:)~ with pix >>>>>:)~ _

Spencer blinks at the screen for a second. _gross, Gabe_ he sends back.

_I know a guy who’ll pay $$$ for pictures like that especially w bden’s ass im just thinking of your financial wellbeing._

Spencer snorts and rolls his eyes, and immediately opens up a new message. _hey_ he sends to Nate.

 _hey, workin, slammed. wanna come in? :D? :D?_ Nate replies, after a couple of minutes. Spencer glances up at where Doctor Maja is haranguing Brendon into pushing his heel back against her hand. 

_can’t, at docs w/bden. gabe there too?_

_awwww bden. hope the ankles ok. and yea for another v long 15 minutes, why_

_might want to take his phone away_

_........._

_just sayin_

_going to do murder. right now. shove him in the blenders and sweeney todd this shit. thx_

Spencer laughs and puts his phone away, and immediately gets dragged into a demonstration that Doctor Maja insists they can do together. It mostly involves Brendon waggling his eyebrows and Spencer slowly pressing Brendon’s toes back towards his leg til B tells him to stop, and then holding them there for half a minute.

After the demonstration’s over (both Brendon and Doctor Maja - seriously, Spencer is never going to be able to think of her as a person with a first and last name, now - are pink-cheeked and grinning from hopping around for so long), Brendon sits back on the exam table and Doctor Maja asks if they have anything else they wanted to talk about. Brendon shrugs, but Spencer sits up and, embarrassingly, _raises his hand_.

“Spencer,” she says gravely, though her eyes are dancing. Spencer can feel his cheeks go warm.

“Um, yeah. So I know it’s early to be thinking about it, but Brendon’s allergies were pretty bad even when we were in Vegas last spring, so I’m thinking that living somewhere where there are trees and grass might actually kill him.”

“Vegas, huh?” She gives them both a speculative look, then nods and pulls a scrip pad over onto her lap, directing her gaze towards Brendon. “Ever been tested for allergies? As a kid?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Nah, just...y’know, the normal sneezing and coughing and wanting to die every spring. That thing.”

She nods, and scribbles something on the notepad, and hands it over to Spencer, who’s supremely gratified. “Prescription-strength Claritin. If it gets bad even with those, let me know and we’ll try some other stuff. Anything else?”

“Sometimes he gets pretty bad coughing fits. Mostly in the mornings and when it’s cold, though,” Spencer says, with a shrug. Brendon shrugs as well. Doctor Maja narrows her eyes at them.

“You smoke?” she asks B.

He shrugs again. “Kinda? Not regularly, just. ...When I’m out.”

She gives him an unamused look, and scrawls on another piece of scrip paper, tears it off, and hands it over to Brendon this time. He looks down at it, and chuckles, and hands it over to Spencer. In the blank for the prescription, there’s just a big, allcaps STOP FUCKING SMOKING in spidery letters. Doctor Maja is his favorite doctor.

They talk for a few more minutes, mostly about Vegas and how Chicago winters completely warp everyone’s sense of acceptable temperatures. Doctor Maja gets surprisingly vehement when she grumbles “Forty degrees is _never_ warm. In other places, they see that, they wear every piece of clothing they own. Here? People in _shorts_. Ridiculous.”

And then they’re all standing, and Brendon’s tying his shoe, and Doctor Maja is shaking their hands and giving them both a warm smile. “Good to meet you both,” she says, and then she reaches up to pat Brendon’s cheek. “Take care of yourselves.” And then, startlingly, she reaches up to pat _Spencer’s_ cheek too, giving him a little wink. “Come back if it doesn’t get any better in two weeks.”

Spencer nods, and turns to make sure Brendon’s with him, and holds the door for him as they exit the exam room. While they’re getting all their paperwork from the nurses’ station, Spencer’s phone goes off again: _that wasnt very nice, mijo. :’( ruess is vicious. i will have scars. he put my phone down patrick’s pants where i am not allowed._

 

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

They do actually wind up going to Spencer’s Starbucks since they’re sort of nearby, because Nate gets Spencer on the phone once they’ve left the doctor’s office, and wheedles him into coming in. ( _”For one hour. ONE HOUR, Ruess. And I’m not dealing with customers. I’m just doing dishes and getting your prep caught up.” “YES, okay, fine, awesome, one hour and you don’t have to - oh fucking cock no way are they all coming - fuck. Okay just GET HERE FAST, Spence, oh my god.”_ ) Spencer actually feels pretty awful about this, fucking dragging Brendon into _work_ with him, and mopes until Brendon rolls his eyes and threatens to beat him unconscious with his own shoes and leave him there on the sidewalk.

“You know I’m just going to wind up pestering whoever’s working on bar and scoring free pastries. Seriously, this is a win-win for me. I get caffeine, carbs, and attention.”

“Those _are_ your three main food groups,” Spencer admits. He’s still reeling a little from the idea of his awesome Jordan Flight 45s being used to hasten his demise. Truth be told, he’s a little nervous about going to work in them - he doesn’t want to get them fucked up. “Still.”

“Shut up, you can’t help that you’re the most awesome at your job,” Brendon scoffs, reaching to tug on the cuff of his coatsleeve, squeezing their hands together briefly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll be an asshole to you for a whole fifteen minutes once your hour’s over. And I’ll make you buy me lunch.”

Spencer mulls this over. “No on the assholishness, yes on the lunch.”

“Awesome.” And then Brendon stops him just before they get to the Starbucks revolving doors, and cranes up to peck his cheek and grin at him. “Still a totally boss date.”

Spencer pauses, and doesn’t even try to stop the stupid beam that splits his face as he just _stares_ at Brendon for a second, because _this kid_. Brendon humored him and married him and came to Chicago with him, and he considers going to the doctor and then tagging along to Spencer’s work and being placated with lunch after a “boss date.” It doesn’t even fucking matter how miserable Spencer sometimes makes himself with his whole cliche unrequited love bullshit, because the fact is? He is really fucking lucky to have Brendon in his life.

“You are not even _fair_ ,” Spencer tells him, before he tugs Brendon into a huge hug and suppresses the impulse to try to eat his face. Brendon wheezes a little, surprised, but goes with it - he pats Spencer’s back lightly, until oxygen deprivation threatens to become a real issue, at which point he thumps Spencer on the shoulder.

“Okay, come on. Doors. Right there,” Brendon points out, gesturing towards them. “One hour.”

Spencer nods. “Then lunch. And getting your scrips filled.”

“Yup,” Brendon nods, already starting to unwind his scarf from around his neck, in anticipation of getting inside. “Oh, and I have a _surprise_ for later!”

Spencer blinks at him, startled, but Brendon gives him a crooked little grin and shoves him in the direction of the doors, following after. Spencer’s barely managed to start unbuttoning his coat, heading over towards the far end of the counter, before Gerard cheers his name. Spencer raises both his fists in half-hearted victory arms, and then notices the semi-uncharacteristic thousand yard stare Nate is giving the opposite wall. He pauses, and waves at him.

Nate doesn’t blink.

“Um...Nate?” Spencer asks, leaning against the counter, peering at him, concerned.

“Hey, Spence,” Nate says, still not moving his eyes, his expression not changing from the blank look he’s wearing. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Yeah, no prob. ...You doing okay?”

“Yeah, m’fine.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow, and glances up - Nate’s mood can generally be gauged by how crazy his hair is. If it’s perfectly sculpted, then someone’s either dead or about to be. If it’s haphazardly tucked under itself or behind his ears, he’s feeling pretty awesome about life. If it’s only a little all over the place, then mostly likely things are situation: normal. 

Then there are times when Ruess’s hair looks like the Sydney Opera House and the Bride of Frankenstein met during a lightning storm. Spencer privately refers to this as “Ruess Defcon 1,” and Nate’s hair right now is a textbook case. “Where’s your hat, Nate?” Spencer asks him, gently. “Your Starbucks hat.”

“Oh, I...threw it at someone,” Nate replies absently, gesturing towards the back room. “I think.”

Spencer looks helplessly over at Gerard, who winces. _What the fuck?_ he mouths.

Gerard sighs. “Montessori school from up the block came in, right after he called you. Forty different frappuccinos. They totally destroyed the lobby, too. It was pretty awful.” He makes a face. From behind the register, Nate makes a pathetic little squeaking sound. Spencer rubs a hand over his face.

“Was it just the two of you?” Spencer asks Gerard, privately reflecting that having to fend off 40 schoolkids with just Gerard as backup would drive him insane too. 

“Nah, Patrick’s here somewhere,” Gerard says, shrugging a shoulder. “He said something about taking up smoking and then went out into the alley.”

“Maybe he’s seen my hat?” Nate says, actually moving his gaze to look at Spencer imploringly. “Will you ask him?”

“Yeah, Nate,” Spencer promises, feeling sort of freaked out. He can usually count on Ruess for a partner in crime in abundant sarcasm at the workplace; he’s not sure what to do with this naked fragility. “Um...hey, B?” he calls, turning to look for Brendon, who’s trying to pretend he’s not eavesdropping, over near the newspaper stand. “Brendon?”

He trots over, and Spencer gives him a private _holy shit I’m super freaked_ look. Brendon raises his eyebrows, but smiles at Gerard and Nate. “Sup, guys?”

“There were a fuckton of kids here and Nate had a breakdown, and it’s wigging Spence out,” Gerard summarizes expertly. “Hey, how’s your ankle?”

“Good! Well, not broken. Which is good. I’m supposed to keep it elevated and iced and shit, and the doctor showed me a bunch of exercises to do. And Spencer’s going to get a lot of frozen peas for me to use to ice it,” Brendon says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. This is, by far, the weirdest fucking day Spencer has ever had at work. And it’s his day off. Figures.

“...I didn’t have a breakdown,” Nate offers, _way_ too late to be believed.

“Sweetie, you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes making bird noises,” Gerard tells him kindly. “It’s okay. I still respect you, as a shift supervisor. You might need to apologize to Patrick, though.”

“I threw my hat at him, didn’t I?” Nate says, sounding rueful.

“Among other things,” Gerard sighs.

“Okay, well!” Spencer cuts in, rubbing his hands together like a demented camp counselor. “Gerard, I’m gonna go find Patrick and make sure he’s okay. Are you good if somebody comes in?”

“Yeah, I’ll ring ‘em up on drive-through,” Gerard says nonchalantly, making a flippy hand gesture and going back to what he was doing in the first place, which appears to be redoing the promotional chalkboard for the third time that week - apparently _this_ time there’s something happening with penguins and Rapunzel and the Sears Tower. Spencer has no idea how that’s supposed to be selling Skinny Lattes to their customers like Corporate demands, but whatever, Gerard’s art has inspired a tumblr and instagram account with huge numbers of followers, so Patrick lets him get away with it.

“Cool. Nate, will you, um.” He falters, and glances over at Brendon, who cringes and shrugs. Spencer bites his lip, and then mouths _can you?_ and nods over at Nate. Brendon sighs and nods. “Hey, Nate, will you let Brendon practice his ankle exercises with you? He needs a spotter.”

“I’m not an idiot, I know he doesn’t need a spotter,” Nate huffs, annoyed, as he folds his arms across his chest. “But if I spend another second behind this register, I’m going to throw it through the window. So.” He starts untying his apron, handing it over to Spencer when he holds his hand out for it. 

Spencer waits til Nate’s safely out from behind the counter, and is _very intently_ watching Brendon circle his ankle left and then right (and unconsciously mimicking the movement himself), before he puts the apron on and slams back into the back room, making a beeline for the door to the alley.

Sure enough, Patrick is sitting on the stoop with his head in his hand, shouting into his cellphone. “ - DON’T FUCKING CARE THAT HE’S YOUR BEST - DAMN IT, PETE, JUST LET ME BE MAD FOR A WHILE, OKAY? STOP FUCKING TRYING TO - okay. ...Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I know, I just.” There’s a pause, where Spencer wonders if he should maybe kick Patrick or go back inside, but then Patrick snorts a laugh. “Dick. Okay, fine. ...Death by Chocolate with fucking _brownies_ in it. Okay. I should probably go back in and make sure they haven’t burned down the store. No, it _would_ be a bad - don’t start. Yeah, at eleven. ...Love you too, bye.” And then he shoves his phone back into his apron pocket.

Spencer considers, and then leans against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Well, that was heartwarming,” he drawls, grinning at the way Patrick jumps a foot off the curb and glares back at him. “Hey.”

“Ugh, fuck,” Patrick says, clutching at his shirtfront. “Don’t sneak up on me, jesus. If I’d’ve had a knife, you’d be dead.”

Spencer chuckles, and then looks over his shoulder, back inside to the supply room and dish pit. “Gerard’s running both registers for a minute; I’ve got Brendon trying to get Nate back to normal. Gee said there was a school that came in?”

“That was not a school,” Patrick fumes, suddenly turning fierce and _angry_. “That was a cadre of midget demons from Hell, sent to destroy us. They were _evil_. And I hate them.”

Spencer raises his eyebrows.

“I’m serious,” Patrick grouses, gesturing with one hand. “Swear to god, if I see one of those little assholes on the street, I’m fucking _laying them out_. I don’t care if they’re only seven.”

Spencer nods. “Welp, that seems healthy. Can you come back inside now? I mean, I’m here and I’m helping for a little bit, but right now your store’s financial viability is in the hands of Gerard Way, so...”

“Right,” Patrick sighs, standing and dusting the back of his pants off. “I’m on it.”

“Oh,” Spencer says, stopping him on his way through the door. “Have you seen Nate’s hat?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, and produces it from his apron pocket, handing it over. “Fucker beaned me in the back of the head with it. He went completely nuts. Like, Apocalypse Now. It was pretty impressive.”

“I think he feels bad about it now, if it helps,” Spencer says, tugging the hat on, letting Patrick back inside. “I’m just going to do dishes and prep, cool?”

“Yeah, awesome. Thanks for coming in,” Patrick says, giving him a grateful smile.

“Well.” Spencer’s pleased despite himself (he likes being helpful). “You assholes owe me.”

He closes and locks the alley door, and gapes for a moment at the astonishing mountain of dishes that’s piled up in the sinks. He can hear Patrick trying to get Gerard to explain his vision of this latest chalkboard drawing, and just before he gets his hands into the sinks, he gets a text notification on his phone and pulls it out of his back pocket on instinct. It’s from Brendon:

_we r playing Guess That Profanity using the “draw the letters w your foot” exercise! he’s totally laughing again! :D!!!_

Spencer smiles fondly, and leans against the sinks as he types in _miracle worker. <3 owe you big. lunch somewhere w cloth napkins?_

_FANCY._

He grins, and shoves his phone back into his pocket, and rolls up his sleeves as he tugs the sanitizer open and reaches for the syrup rails.

 

An hour and twenty minutes later, Spencer’s done with the dishes, and he’s made mocha and whipped creams for the next day. Nate’s hair is back at about Ruess Defcon 4, which is livable, and Gerard has finished his latest chalkboard masterpiece, and Patrick is no longer threatening to take up various bad habits. When Spence emerges from the back room, pink-cheeked and splattered with water, he finds that Brendon’s curled up on one of the highback chairs, reading last week’s Food section of the Times, munching happily on a piece of iced lemon pound cake.

He tosses Nate his hat and his apron back as he moves out from behind the counter. “Okay, you’re set. I didn’t do a trash run, but there wasn’t that much, so I guess they can just do it tonight.”

“You’re my favorite,” Patrick calls, from over by the bar, and he throws Spencer hearthands for a second just before he has to go back to steaming pitchers of milk and pulling shots. 

“Give me a raise,” Spencer calls back cheerfully, as he sets his bag beside Brendon’s chair, chuckling as Nate starts paraphrasing Hova, all _if you’re feeling like a pimp, Spencer, go on brush your shoulders off_. Spencer dutifully brushes his shoulders off.

“You want a drink?” he asks B, perching on the armrest of his chair for a second, scanning over the article Brendon was reading. There’s a picture of a huge side of ribs. Spencer is _starving_.

“I’ll just steal some of yours,” Brendon says, shaking his head, turning his face up and looking so _expectant_ that Spencer doesn’t even really think about it, just leans down to press a kiss to the corner of B’s mouth. He doesn’t even register he’s done it until he’s gotten up and is leaning against the counter up at the registers, snickering at Nate ( _Brendons is pimps too, go on brush your shoulders off!_ [Brendon throws up the horns, not looking up from his article]).

“Dirty soy chai?” Nate asks, interrupting his song, provoking a protest from Gerard over at the drive-thru, who was bobbing his head along in time. “Extra dirty?” He waggles his eyebrows at Spencer, who promptly blushes and scowls.

“Can we just, like, modify a Brendon to not be so godawful with all the syrups?” he asks, gesturing towards the hot cups. “With soy?”

Nate purses up his lips, but nods. “I think so, yeah. Still want whip?”

“Sure, go crazy.”

Nate grabs for a cup and starts marking it, but winces and gives up halfway through, walking the cup over to Patrick. “Can you just do, like, a half-Brendon?”

“Which half?” Patrick immediately replies. Spencer loves his boss.

It takes Patrick a couple of tries, but he does eventually make a drink with proportions he can live with, and he hands it off to Spencer, getting distracted by the equal parts hilarious and horrifying rendition of “Single Ladies” that’s being performed behind him by Gerard and Nate.

Spencer realizes that he has about a thirty-second window in which to get him and Brendon _out_ of the store before Brendon starts trying to teach them the actual dance moves. A part of him really wants to see Gerard trying to be Beyonce, but another part of him realizes that that way, madness lies. He makes haste towards B’s chair. “Lunch?”

“God yes, my stomach is trying to eat itself,” Brendon says, his eyebrows raising farther and farther up his forehead as he watches Nate and Gerard bop along. “Where are we going?” he asks, reaching for Spencer’s drink, taking a sip of it.

“There’s a Greek place not too far away. It’s supposed to be pretty good,” Spencer suggests, taking the drink back, taking a tentative sip of it. It’s sweeter than he’d normally get. He has no idea how Brendon drinks twice as much syrup in one cup; his teeth would rot and then vibrate right out of his head.

Brendon nods, and then puts down his newspaper section and starts winding his scarf back around his neck. “Cool. Do they have cloth napkins?”

“I...don’t know?” Spencer says, giving Brendon a sheepish grin. “But Tina Fey said they’re awesome, so.”

Brendon stands, giving Spencer a very cool, appraising look. “I don’t know. I was promised cloth napkins, but Tina Fey is pretty boss.”

“Plus you get half an entire chicken on a bed of fries?” Spencer adds, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

“Dude. _Sold_ ,” Brendon says, beaming at him as he tugs his coat on. He smacks at where Spencer is trying to wrap his own scarf around his head one-handed, and starts wrapping it for him. “Honestly, Spence, why wouldn’t you just lead with ‘you get half an entire chicken’? Like, who can say no to that?”

“I don’t know. Godless communists,” Spencer says, holding still as Brendon loops his scarf securely, and buttons up his coat for him, before doing up his own. “Got your gloves?” B produces them from his pocket and puts them on, and Spencer hands the drink off to him so he can do the same. “Okay. It’s like a ten-minute walk, though, does your leg hurt?”

“I’ll be fine,” Brendon says, shaking his head, just before he takes another long swig of the drink.

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he sighs, giving Spence a long-suffering look. “Stop worrying. If it starts to hurt, I’ll tell you. And I’ll make you carry me to the next bus stop.”

Spencer knows his immediate reaction to that should be outrage, not relief, but whatever, he’ll take it. He shoulders his bag and ignores how Nate is pointing at him and Brendon, singing _if you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it_ , and waits til Brendon’s settled as well, before he waves in the general direction of the counter.

“Bye, guys!” Patrick calls, waving back before going back to trying to show Gerard the opening moves to the chorus. Gerard beams and waves, and Nate does the Beyonce hand-twisty thing in their direction. Brendon flips him off, and Spencer smirks and reaches for his hand, pulling him into the same section of the revolving door and keeping him close even after they’ve been deposited outside.

The walk down to the Athenian Room is uneventful and not especially long - Spencer watches and worries silently, and is careful to steer them around patches of sidewalk that look icy and hold B’s hand extra tight, but Brendon’s limp doesn’t get any worse.

The inside of the restaurant is light and relatively quiet, and they’re seated near the back wall, shrugging out of coats and scarves and gloves and bags and shoving them under their seats.

“No cloth napkins,” Spencer notes ruefully, as he sits.

“I’ll forgive you eventually,” Brendon tells him, pulling up close to the table, kicking Spencer’s shoe underneath it. “Given time.” He smirks a little, waggles his eyebrows. “And incentive.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. He really knows better than to engage, but he can’t help himself. “I’m assuming you mean half of an entire chicken, as incentive.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Spencer sighs and looks down at the menu, concentrating on not letting the heat rising in his cheeks get any worse. Blushing really easily fucking _sucks_ , and he really, really hates that Brendon flirting with him still makes him do it. A small thread of self-consciousness and shame starts stitching itself through Spencer’s stomach, and he bites his lip savagely, looking the menu over for a minute. “I think it’s the Kalamata Chicken thing,” he says lightly, not looking up. 

For half a minute or more, there’s quiet while Spencer stares hard at the menu in front of him. Then, underneath the table, Brendon’s feet find one of Spencer’s, and squeeze it between them. “...You really don’t like it when I do that, do you?” Brendon murmurs, and Spencer glances up, raising his eyebrows at the sort of worried expression on Brendon’s face.

“Hmm?”

“Like.” Brendon gestures vaguely, with one hand. “The teasing and stuff.”

“Oh.” Spencer wants to _die_. “No, it’s fine,” he says quickly, shrugging a shoulder, looking down at the table. “I just...I don’t know, I’m not good at that shit, so. Y’know.”

“You are too,” Brendon snorts, fidgeting a little. Spencer can feel when Brendon starts to jog his knee under the table; his foot’s on the table leg so the whole surface starts to shake minutely. “You flirt with Sean and Nate all the time.”

“What? No I don’t!” Spencer says, startled at the idea. “Dude, what?”

“You totally do! You guys were flirting _at the store_!” Brendon says, finally looking up from the menu, breaking into a grin at what must be a pretty epic look of horror, on Spencer’s face. “Dude, you so were. I had half a mind to give him what-for, trying to seduce my husband while I was in the room.”

“You’re, like, legitimately nuts,” Spencer huffs. His cheeks are going even redder. Fuck. “There is no way I was flirting with him. His hair is sentient and he wears man-capris. No.”

“Is that what you like? Sentient hair?” Brendon asks, warming to his topic, cheerful. “I could grow mine out and make it all crazy. If it would make you happier. I’d do that for you.”

“That’s so sweet,” Spencer deadpans. “But no, your hair’s fine.”

“Oh, my hair’s _fine_ ,” Brendon imitates, pulling a face. “Not like _Nate’s_ hair.”

Spencer snorts, and smiles despite himself, kicking Brendon lightly. “Shut up. Your hair is beautiful. Best hair ever. There.”

“Well duh,” Brendon sniffs. “But you do flirt with Sean.”

Spencer considers, and then shrugs and nods. “Yeah.” He grins at Brendon’s little squawk, and tries to dodge it when B starts poking him with his rolled-up silverware. “What? He’s hot. _You_ think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t flirt with him,” Brendon says, injured.

Spencer levels a look at him. “Brendon. You flirt with everybody.”

“I do not,” Brendon says, rearing back in his seat, highly affronted. Spencer just laughs at him, hiding his mouth behind his hand, propping his chin up. “I don’t!”

“Dude, you flirted with the girl who brought us to our table. Rubano puts you up at the register at work _because_ you flirt with everyone. You bring in more money for that store than, like, everybody else combined.”

“That makes me sound like a hooker,” Brendon complains, trying to poke Spencer with his silverware again, until Spencer just takes it from him and sets it on his side of the table. 

“Well, yeah. But one of the high-end ones. Like a call girl, not a hooker,” Spencer clarifies, beaming at the look of consternation Brendon’s giving him. “Like Julia Roberts _after_ the makeover.”

“Fuck you, you know I hate that movie,” Brendon mutters, folding his arms.

“Which is why I made the comparison,” Spencer says smoothly, giving him a placid smile as the waitress comes up to get their order. He even lets Brendon get in one last kick, since he’s been so soundly beaten in logic and reasoning.

 

Tina Fey was totally right about that half a chicken thing - Spencer watches interestedly as Brendon attacks his food like it’s insulted his mother and his guitar-playing abilities. “Don’t choke on the bones, jesus,” he snorts, as he shoves food into his own face. Then he promptly hoists himself up on his own petard by whining a little at how good it is.

“I’d die happy,” Brendon barely manages, around a huge mouthful of food. “Oh my fuck. I love this chicken. I want to _fuck_ this chicken.”

Spencer points at him with his fork. “Hey. Gross.”

Brendon blinks, and swallows thoughtfully. “I want to make tender love to this chicken?”

“As your legal spouse, I think I’m supposed to have a bunch of objections to that,” Spencer says. “Like, I think technically after that I could ask for a divorce and get all of your stuff.”

“That’s bullshit, you could not,” Brendon scoffs, shoving another huge piece of chicken into his mouth. “Like it’s fucking Monopoly and I just landed on one of your hotels, what the fuck.”

“You’re the one who just admitted to being into necrophilia and bestiality, in the same sentence,” Spencer points out. “You want to fuck dead chickens.”

Brendon points his fork at him, and pouts. “ _Hey_. I want to make _love_ to dead chickens. There’s a difference.”

Spencer can’t help it; Brendon’s outrage is too perfect and ridiculous, so he starts giggling. Brendon breaks into a crooked grin and takes another bite of chicken, and they both realize that their waitress has been watching them for a moment, an odd smirk on her face.

“Aw, shit,” Brendon mumbles, his mouth full.

“He doesn’t actually fuck dead animals,” Spencer hears himself saying. He’s horrified, even before he finishes the sentence, and he waves his hands apologetically when he’s done, because obviously continued verbal communication isn’t a great idea for him, right now.

“We-ell,” she says, tapping a straw against her hip, tilting her head philosophically, “if they’re already dead, it’s not like they can feel it.” Then she gives them a little smile and refills Brendon’s drink.

“Dibs,” Brendon says immediately, as soon as she’s walking away.

“Dude, no _fair_.” Spencer’s already thumbing a text message to Ryan into his phone - _found yr soul mate @ athenian room._ “You can’t take all the good ones.”

“Boy, if I had a nickel...” Brendon says, waiting until Spencer’s had enough time to rewind and replay what he just said and start blushing again, before he grins. “Anyway, I don’t see why I can’t. You can be the start of my harem.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, waves his fork threateningly in B’s direction. “I didn’t sign up for harems.”

“Sharing is caring, Spence,” Brendon says mildly, pinching a handful of fries from off his plate and shoving them into his mouth. “You’d be the first wife. You’d be in charge of the rest of them. I know how you like to be in charge of people.”

“I’m going to break your other ankle,” Spencer tells him, conversationally. “It’s going to be awesome.”

“You could make, like, chore charts for everyone. For all of the wives,” Brendon beams. “You could _color-code_ them.”

Spencer blinks, and finds himself kind of wondering about the logistics of chore-planning in a polygamous household, because huh. Fuck, it _would_ probably take color-coordination. And dividing people up by, like, houses, like Hogwarts. Grocery shopping _alone_ would take - 

and then he shakes himself and glares. “Fuck you and your Big Love fantasies.”

Brendon’s cackling. “You were thinking about it!”

“Shut up,” Spencer mutters mutinously, shoving his mouth full of chicken and chewing as Brendon laughs at him. His husband is a dick.

“Baby, don’t hate,” Brendon beams, reaching under the table to squeeze his knee. “Think of the supply runs you’d get to do at Office Depot.”

“I do love Post-Its,” Spencer says, biting into a fry delicately. Brendon gives his knee another squeeze, and then chomps on a couple of fries as well. 

“So many Post-Its. And Sharpies,” Brendon says. “And paper clips. Oh man, _all_ of the paper clips.”

“This is the weirdest dirty talk ever,” Spencer snorts. 

Brendon smirks and leans over the table a little. “Yeah? You like that? You like that 24-pack of multicolored Sharpies, all fresh and new?” he growls, his voice going low and ridiculous and still kinda hot. Spencer grins and then bites his lip, closing his eyes for a second or two.

“Yeah,” he sighs, drawing the word out, playing along. “God, I _need_ them, give them to me,” he says, opening his eyes after. Brendon’s...ha, Brendon’s blushing a little. Score.

“Oh, I will,” he recovers, a beat or two too late. “You’re gonna get all the Sharpies you can handle. If you’re good, I’ll give you the metallic pen bonus pack. Wherever you want.”

“Fuck, yeah. Mmm, and Post-Its?” Spencer asks, unable to keep from grinning a little, even as he stretches back in his chair. He hooks his ankle around Brendon’s (not the fucked up one), for good measure. 

“Post-Its everywhere,” Brendon promises, licking his bottom lip lewdly, grinning. “ _Covered_ in Post-Its and Sharpies and...and...”

“Wite-Out,” Spencer half-gasps/half-groans, his mouth twitching. “Everywhere.”

Luckily for him, Brendon cracks at that, ducking his head as he starts giggling quietly. Pleased, Spencer makes a show of huffing and whining a little ( _noooo don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop we didn’t even get to the hi-liters_ ) before he’s content to just sit there and grin stupidly, watching Brendon laugh. Under the table, Brendon hooks their heels together, legs pressed tight up to the knee.

For the next couple of minutes, they lapse back into a companionable silence while Brendon polishes off the last of his fries and Spencer makes slightly obnoxious noises with his straw. Spencer’s phone buzzes on the table, a reply from Ryan: _well hurry up and tell him/her to get to the bookstore my shift is over in an hour ps hows the date going bow chicka bow_

“Ryan?” Brendon asks, rolling his eyes at Spencer’s nod. 

“Still mad at him?” Spencer asks, only a tiny bit surprised, as he thumbs in another text: _will do. shut up. date going well. ate half a chicken, discussed wite-out bukkake and harems._

“See, that question tells me you don’t really understand the whole Ryan Ross feelings extravaganza,” Brendon quips, though his shoulders are kinda tensing up. “Other people don’t get to _be_ mad. Only Ryan. Emotions are reserved only for him. Other people just get to find out that every single thing about them is wrong.”

Spencer tsks and reaches for Brendon, squeezing his arm lightly. “Want me to yell?”

Brendon snorts. “Wow, yeah, _no_. A world of no.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

Brendon frowns a little, and moves his arm so that Spencer’s hand isn’t on top of his wrist anymore but resting squarely in B’s palm. Brendon traces his thumb over Spencer’s knuckles wordlessly, and shakes his head.

“Well,” Spencer murmurs, suddenly feeling wrong-footed, “let me know.”

 

Spencer grabs the check as soon as it comes out, but doesn’t move his hand from Brendon’s as he roots around in his bag until he manages to find his wallet and his debit card. They tip the waitress roughly thirty-five percent of their total ( _necrophiliac bestiality_ , Brendon whimpers, remembering), and Brendon knots Spencer’s scarf for him before they hustle back out, into the cold. After several minutes of profanity and jostling, Spencer finally figures out how to fit the leftovers into his messenger bag without spilling them on everything, and he celebrates by raising victory arms and shouting “USA! USA! USA!”

“I’m very proud of you, baby,” Brendon tells him solemnly. “Good job.”

“I’d like to thank my mom and my coach and, of course, the Almighty,” Spencer orates to a couple of passersby. “Thank you based god for guiding me on my path.”

“Amen.”

Spencer beams at him, still high on triumph, and links their arms together. “Cool. Where to?”

“Um,” Brendon frowns, looking down Webster. “Brown Line. ...Armitage?”

“Whoa, Brown Line, _fancy_ ,” Spencer jokes, steering them down the sidewalk. “Wait, can we stop at Walgreens and get your meds?”

“I _guess_ ,” Brendon sighs, squeezing his arm, looking sort of delighted with him. “You want to stop and make fun of the Argo drinks too?”

“Fucking _always_. Awesome.”

Brendon grins. “It’s cute, how happy you get when you get to judge something.”

“Right? That’s why I work in coffee.”

“It’s a good fit.”

“Whatever, your mom is a good fit.”

“Your _face_ is a good fit.”

“That’s true,” Spencer says sedately. 

There isn’t actually a Walgreens on Armitage; at least, not one within walking distance of their route. Spencer is outraged - the first rule he’d learned for himself upon coming to Chicago was that there was always a Walgreens within like four city blocks. “What the actual fuck,” he fumes, as he piggybacks Brendon the last block to the entrance of Argo Tea. “Chicago, you’re breaking my heart, here.”

“Shut up, there’s a Wal-Mart like three stops down on the train,” Brendon says, patting the top of his head. “Cheap generic versions of medicine! Even more awesome!” He shimmies down off of Spencer’s back and reaches for his hand, tugging him inside the store and keeping him close as Spencer almost immediately starts scoffing at the ridiculous loose tea flavors on the wall.

“Ugh, _god_ , green tea chocolate _mint_?” Spencer splutters, horrified.

“Mmmm,” Brendon teases, squeezing his fingers. “Three great tastes that taste great together!”

“It’s an alternate universe and I don’t like it,” Spencer whines. “Nobody’s screaming and it doesn’t smell like coffee.”

“Whatever, I’m getting a drink,” Brendon says, steering them towards the registers.

“Wait, what? No! They’re going to know I’m the enemy!” Spencer hisses at him, being dragged along unwillingly. “Seriously. They’re going to _know_.”

“Stop being crazy, honey, or I’ll make you get one too,” Brendon tells him sweetly, before beaming and saying hello to the cashier.

 

Spencer sips sulkily at his White Frostea (it’s fucking good. goddammit) and trades drags on a cigarette with Brendon outside the Brown Line entrance, crunching on a pile of accumulated slush on the curb with his toe. “I’m just saying I’m only drinking a tiny bit of caffeine right now, as opposed to a fuckton,” he huffs.

“I’m just saying _I’m_ only drinking a tiny bit of caffeine right now, too,” Brendon points out, smirking. “Also they bake their own muffins.”

“Adulterer,” Spencer murmurs, into his cup. He hands the cigarette over to Brendon and gestures _no more_. “Kill it. Then we still have to go to Wal-Mart.”

Brendon smokes it down to the filter and tosses the butt onto a particularly gross-looking slushpile, then starts up the stairs to the platform, digging his CTA pass out of his pocket. Spencer follows close behind, flicking Brendon’s shins a couple of times just to be an ass.

They get the train, Spencer anchoring Brendon against the opposite doors since there are no seats to be had, and they get off at Chicago, ambling down the steps and into the weirdly tiny, compact Wal-Mart, heading towards the pharmacy. Spencer actually manages to score them both a couple of chairs while they wait for Brendon’s scrips to be filled, which is pretty awesome. Also awesome: super cheap generic versions of the medicines B needs. 

“Holy shit, health insurance is the fucking promised land,” Brendon says, gaping at the total blinking on the register. It’s about a third as much as they were expecting.

“Right?” Spencer says, sort of wide-eyed himself as he pays and gets their bag and starts them towards the door. “Do you have room for this with your stuff?”

They pause just inside the doors as Brendon slots his new pill bottles into various crevices of his bag, and then they’re outside and crossing the street (they both kind of hurry across - that intersection has seemed a lot more dangerous ever since they found out about that scene from The Dark Knight being filmed there) and then Spencer stops in front of the elevator and gives Brendon a preemptive mulish look as he hits the button. 

“What,” Brendon says flatly.

“I feel lazy,” Spencer says, just as flat. “Oh look, an elevator. Awesome. I like not walking up stairs and putting a lot of pressure on my various leg joints.”

Brendon sighs, and chuckles softly. “You’re such an asshole,” he mutters, but he crowds Spencer back into the corner of the elevator as soon as the doors open, and kisses his cheek once they’re the only two inside.

They have better luck on the next train - it’s got a couple of the bright yellow Tropicana cars, so of course Brendon makes a beeline for those. It’s also mostly empty, and they get to take up a bench by themselves, sprawling a little. “Don’t get too comfortable, we’re not staying long,” B warns him, just before he drops his cheek onto Spencer’s shoulder. 

“Where are we getting off?” Spencer asks, curious. It’s kind of been killing him, not really knowing their destination, but he’s been trying to be good and not harangue Brendon about it.

“Transferring at Washington and Wells,” B says, shuffling a little closer as Spencer slides his arm across the back of the seats and tucks him in tight. 

“Cool,” Spencer says, and he happily watches the buildings shift past the train windows.

 

“ _What_ ,” Spencer says, staring - a little wide-eyed - at the unfamiliar Green Line platform.

“Shut up,” Brendon snorts, grinning at him as he shoves through the turnstile and crooks his finger. “Come on.”

Spencer transfers the nervous look to Brendon instead of the signage, but dutifully follows him through. “...No seriously, _what_ ,” Spencer hisses. “Where are we going?” 

“It’s kind of a surprise?” Brendon tells him sheepishly, giving him a crooked little smile. “Don’t read the stops too much or you’ll figure it out.”

They must have just missed a train; the platform is almost deserted. Spencer grimaces. “Okay. ...Okay, cool, yay surprises, but just. Um.”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “We’re going to be fine. Jesus, I should make us just _walk_ home.”

“Somewhere in Vegas, my mother just started screaming and she doesn’t know why,” Spencer snips back, folding his arms. “And okay, fine. I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Brendon says gravely. 

They board the train without incident, and Spencer allows himself three stops to freak out before he starts to realize that all the horror stories he’s been told about the Green Line aren’t entirely the norm. He actually starts to feel like kind of a tool, especially when a mom and her three kids get on the train for a few stops and one of the kids, a little boy, is singing an impromptu song about his awesome day at school.

“I’m a jackass,” Spencer mutters to Brendon, who snorts and surreptitiously reaches between them to take his hand and squeeze it. 

“Only sometimes,” Brendon assures him, giving him the sort of content smile that B only wears occasionally. Spencer feels his cheeks heat through, but he can’t help smiling back a little.

“Well, that’s good,” he says, and squeezes Brendon’s hand back.

Spencer gets kind of an inkling when they get off at the Conservatory stop and all, but he tries to keep from grinning until they’re actually out of the train station. “Um....this way,” Brendon says, squinting at the buildings and signs until he turns them and takes them a little way down a road until it opens up on their left, to a massive greenhouse-looking building. “So, uh. Surprise?” he offers tentatively, gesturing toward the Garfield Park Conservatory.

“This is fucking cool,” Spencer says decisively, and he twines their fingers together as they head towards the doors. 

They go to the desert room first, because...well, they’re both from Vegas and it seems fitting. The first thing that Spencer notices is the blast of heat from the massive room, and he nearly chokes and starts removing his scarf and coat, gaping at the spiky cacti and succulents like a tourist.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, under his breath.

“Right?” Brendon agrees, flapping off one of his gloves, folding his coat over his bag. His startled, delighted smile is catching - Spencer can feel it spreading over his own face, and he laughs a little, happy, as he catches Brendon’s hand back in his own. They start winding through the paths in the room, murmuring Venomous Tentacula and Audrey II jokes to each other every now and then. Brendon does a fair Audrey II impersonation. Spencer pretends, for his sake, to be surprised.

“FUZZY CACTUS,” Brendon shouts as they round a corner, making a beeline, dragging Spencer along.

“Don’t hug it,” Spencer advises, trotting behind him dutifully to admire the (admittedly really cool) fuzzy cactus. Brendon beams at him, and immediately starts digging in his bag for his phone to take pictures. Spencer has the same idea, and manages to take a pretty good one of Brendon wigging out about a huge saguaro skeleton, a little while later.

After the desert room, there’s a room full of palm trees and things which are...terrifying, and really interesting, but mostly terrifying, because Spencer spends the entire time certain that a branch or a coconut or something is going to break off the top of one of the trees and kill him. Brendon gets accosted by three different families wanting him to take pictures of them posing in front of various plants (Spencer is fucking glad he doesn’t have to sit through their vacation slide shows, for _real_ ), and they’re halfway through the kids exhibit before they even realize it. 

It’s kind of ridiculously adorable, the signs and activities and displays the Conservatory’s set up for children - the room looks like a cross between Wonderland and the Chocolate Room from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

There are a couple of harassed-looking sets of parents letting their kids play (trans: shriek and run around each other in circles) for a minute at one of the resting points, and Brendon ducks his head and smiles, and manages to make his way through the tangle easily. Spencer, of course, isn’t so lucky - he follows a step after Brendon, but is waylaid by a tiny girl in a My Little Pony hoodie running headfirst into his side. She ricochets off, and glares up at him.

“Whoa, hey, you okay?” he asks without thinking, offering a hand down to help her up.

“Watch where you’re going,” she mutters, as she puts her hand in Spencer’s and lets him haul her up. He blinks at her, and snorts, unable to believe it.

“Hey, _you_ ran into _me_ ,” he points out mildly, as soon as she’s standing. (A few feet away, Brendon is smirking hugely and trying to be covert about how he’s taking pictures. Jerk.) “You good?”

She’s still looking at him kind of suspiciously, but nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then,” Spencer nods. Then he shrugs and puts his hands in his coat pockets. “I like your hoodie,” he says lamely, before he sighs at himself, and turns to catch up to Brendon and give him hell for not intervening. Brendon’s good at kids. 

“I like your shoes!” she calls after him, waiting just long enough for Spencer to turn and give her a grin and a thumbs-up before she’s running back into the fray.

“That was heartwarming,” Brendon informs him, grinning hugely. “You looked like you were in front of a firing squad.”

“You’re just jealous that first-graders don’t think _your_ shoes are awesome,” Spencer huffs.

“You’re right, I’m super jealous that my peer group isn’t a bunch of six-year-olds,” Brendon tells him, smirking a little, pleased with himself.

“I really think you’re overestimating most of our friends,” Spencer informs him sadly, feeling a ridiculous flutter of happiness in his chest when Brendon starts laughing. 

 

They continue along through the rest of the conservatory, keeping up a running tally of tourists from Indiana wearing fleece (17) and plants that look like dicks (they lose count at 53). A tour guide gives them a very severe look after Brendon surprises Spencer with a _dead-on_ version of “fat guy, little coat” after they find a plant that bears an uncanny resemblance to Chris Farley. To be fair, Spencer’s bark of laughter _is_ pretty loud.

All in all, it shapes up to be a really good day. Spencer’s been in the city long enough to recognize how rare those are, and to commit everything to memory while he can - the actual sunlight, the feeling of Brendon’s hip knocking against his, the smell of green things growing, even in the dead of a midwest winter. He stops Brendon while they’re bundling back up in the lobby, before they head back into the ginormous, filthy blast cooler that is Chicago in January, and kisses his cheek lightly, before he can second-guess himself.

Brendon gives him a surprised little smile. “Aw.”

“Shut up,” Spencer huffs, taking the ends of Brendon’s scarf away from him, knotting them securely under his chin. “This was a really good idea.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of awesome,” Brendon agrees, tilting his chin dutifully as Spencer finishes fiddling with his scarf. He takes the ends and tucks them into his coat, and hesitates a second or two before reaching over to grab Spencer’s hand, squeezing his fingers lightly. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says, quiet, uncharacteristically serious.

For whatever reason, Spencer’s lungs choose that moment to collapse and die, and he’s stuck there for a second, watching Brendon watch their hands, unable to breathe. The last bursts of the late-afternoon sun are gilding the whole lobby, even catching on Brendon’s eyelashes; and Spencer stares at him and thinks that it isn’t even _fair_ that anybody can look that beautiful. He knows, suddenly and incontrovertibly, that this is going to be the part of today he’ll always, always remember - how Brendon looked when he realized he’d made Spencer happy.

“Brendon,” he croaks, equal parts frustrated and just - so fucking in love, _dammit_. It must show on his face, his complete inability to deal with the bucket of feelings that just got dumped on him, because Brendon tilts his head, his eyes crinkling just at the corners. 

“Ye-es?” Brendon uses his ridiculous Barry White voice, because he is an asshole who doesn’t respect Spencer’s pain. He does, however, snake his unoccupied hand around Spencer’s back and haul him in, unabashedly _cuddling_ him. It is shocking, how much Spencer doesn’t mind. “Baby, relax. I got you.”

“You got me, huh?” Spencer says, proud of how flat his voice is. He drapes his arms over Brendon’s shoulders, and tries not to look anything but unimpressed.

“Uh huh. Made it legal and everything,” Brendon teases, tilting his chin to continue, before Spencer cuts him off with a raised hand.

“If any part of what you’re about to say includes turning the word ‘wife’ into a verb, I will take your CTA pass and leave your ass here,” he threatens. Brendon just sucks his teeth, and tucks his arms a little tighter around Spencer’s waist, and Spencer gets the distinct impression he is being _managed_. “What.” It’s weird to think of Brendon side-stepping and humoring his various weirdnesses like Spencer does for him.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Brendon tells him, his smirk teasing but his eyes warm and kind. Spencer flushes pink, and rolls his eyes. “You are,” Brendon teases, shifting his weight and making Spencer do the same, swaying them to an invisible beat, making up new lyrics to Jewel songs ( _Spencers blush for sooooo loooong, even after I’m gone_ , though after that, Brendon cuts himself off and starts humming the tune instead) until Spencer’s snickering and hiding his face behind one hand.

“Oh my god, shut up,” he grouses, trying not to look as delighted as he still feels, waffling a few seconds before he leans in and pecks a kiss at the corner of B’s mouth. “C’mon. We’ve got to go get groceries, still.”

“Hell yeah, food,” Brendon says cheerfully, though he makes no move to let go of Spencer. “Give me a real one, first,” he orders, lifting his chin expectantly, raising his eyebrows until Spencer actually cottons on to what he’s asking for and huffs. He complies, though, and leans in to actually kiss Brendon, unconsciously reaching a hand up to cup his jaw lightly.

He can feel Brendon’s cheekbone sharp under his thumb, taste the spearmint gum B was chewing earlier, and Spencer sighs softly, not even aware his eyes have closed, until they break apart. He blinks them back open and licks his lips, and tries not to shiver at the dark-eyed look Brendon is giving him.

“There. C’mon, we’re out of avocados, and I wanted to make tortilla soup tonight,” he says, recovering slowly.

“Tortilla soup for dinner. My life is complete,” Brendon says solemnly, sliding his arms out from around Spencer, letting him free.

Spencer catches one of his hands before it falls, holds it securely in his own as he guides them toward the doors, holds one open for B. “And all by the age of 19, that’s pretty impressive.”

“I’m a pretty impressive person,” Brendon tells him, with a leer. Spencer snorts, and rolls his eyes, and definitely does _not_ privately speculate, as he leads them out into the waning Chicago sunlight, back to the train stop.

Cermak’s is relatively deserted, which means they manage to get in and get out in 45 minutes. Between the two of them, grocery shopping is an adventure - Brendon has to look at absolutely everything, especially the produce; and Spencer has to compare prices and deals, and double back to previous aisles at least 3 times. They do manage to score some deals, though - they hit after the evening rush, so the bakery stuff’s on sale, which means they load up on day-old pastries and bread for dirt cheap. Plus, avocados. There are, however, inevitable setbacks.

“No,” Spencer says firmly, glaring at Brendon, as they near the checkout line.

“But,” Brendon whines, giving Spencer some deeply aggravating puppy dog eyes.

“You don’t even know what it _is_ ,” Spencer says, pointing to the piece of cactus Brendon is trying to sneak into their cart.

“Do too. Nopales,” Brendon says, looking smug, wiggling a couple of the spiky ends with his fingertips.

“Okay, how do you prepare nopales?” Spencer follows up, deciding not to bring up how Brendon _totally only knew that because he read the sign_.

“You…” Brendon starts, before sighing when he realizes he’s not going to be able to come up with something believable. He accidentally pokes himself with one of the spikes ( _TETANUS!_ Spencer’s brain screams. _HEPS A THROUGH C!_ ) and sticks his finger in his mouth ( _EBOLA!!!!_ ), frowning. “You stick it up your ass,” he grouses, still sucking on his finger. “Twist it around a little.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, and runs a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp for a few seconds as he tries to think of a compromise (and the fact that he’s even _considering_ a compromise is giving him serious pause - who is he as a person, anymore?). “Okay. Go put the nailbat disguised as produce back, and we can get extras of those awful tamarind candy things you and Ryan like,” he offers.

Brendon gives him an inscrutable look, which is pretty disquieting since. _Brendon_. But then he shrugs a shoulder and disappears back towards produce, and Spencer hangs out by the half-off bakery stuff (he may sneak a couple of extra pastries into their basket, and they may be the kind Brendon likes best) for the few minutes it takes him to get back. They pick up the fucking disgusting candy things, and head towards the checkout, and Spencer feels weird and guilty until Brendon’s hand settles low and secure on his back, as he stretches to help him unload the cart onto the conveyor belt at the register.

They stop and get elotes from the food cart outside, and demolish them on the short walk up to the 52 bus stop. The sun’s set, and true to form, Chicago is back to being fucking balls-ass freezing, so Spencer chivvies Brendon into actually hiding behind the windbreak of the bus shelter, since for once there isn’t someone sleeping or tweaking on the bench inside. He leans against the plexi wall, ignoring the huge ad for STI testing, and actually looks Brendon over.

He looks...well, tired, but they all look kind of tired. At least Brendon’s lost the hunted, punched look he had the last few months in Vegas, and the first few months in Chicago, before he and the city established their mutual admiration society. Spencer rubs his hands together and cranes his head to try to see down the street (no bus yet, damn it, fucking phantom 52), and finally takes the bench next to Brendon, arranging their bags for a moment, before he sighs and settles down.

Brendon just nudges Spencer with his shoulder, and gives him a small, crooked smile when Spencer looks over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, nodding, staring off into the middle distance for a while, until he hears Brendon scoff next to him. Next thing he knows, there’s an arm snaking around his waist, and he exhales because Brendon is _warm_ against his side.

“Put your head down, Spence, come on,” Brendon tells him, tugging Spencer in until he just goes with it, too drained to argue. He leans against Brendon, curling in enough to press his temple to Brendon’s shoulder, his eyes closing as B starts to rub his back. “There you go,” Brendon croons quietly, and Spencer would protest, but - it’s nice. Having someone else be on lookout for the bus.

He doesn’t exactly fall asleep, but he’s not entirely conscious as Brendon pulls him up a little while later, gives him a couple of bags and swipes their CTA passes as they get onto the bus. Spencer blinks hazily as they head down the aisle, until he hears Brendon’s voice near his ear. “Spence. There.” He glances over, and there’s a lone unoccupied seat beside him. He turns around, gives Brendon an expectant look, but Brendon just gives him an uncharacteristically firm one back.

“Sit,” B says, voice hard and determined.

Spencer sits.

Brendon stands beside him, making sure their groceries don’t fall over, and Spencer sighs and leans over til his forehead connects with B’s hip. He stays there, letting Brendon pat his back idly, til he hears the Augusta stop being called and scoops up some of the bags, following Brendon out of the back exit. 

Ryan isn’t at the apartment when they get back, which isn’t exactly unprecedented, but it’s weird to be in their shared space and still be _with_ Brendon, still feel like their...whatever, their extended hangs, their _date_ didn’t end the moment they stepped past the front door. What’s even weirder is how comfortable their shared domesticity is - Spencer snickers as he undoes the mess of knots Brendon made of his scarf, and B puts up the groceries because he knows Spence hates it, and Spence cues up Tracy Chapman’s first album on their knockoff iHome in the kitchen, because B was humming Fast Car on their walk home. He tries not to dwell, and gets out the biggest pot they have, and starts amassing the ingredients for soup. Behind him, B is singing along to the chorus of Baby Can I Hold You and chopping onions on the sideboard, and the apartment is warm and beginning to smell like food, and Spencer is pleasantly worn out from the day’s adventures - it’s perfect. It’s another perfect moment.

Spencer shivers, and pours a little oil into the bottom of the pot to be warming up.

A minute later, Brendon sidles up beside him, bumps their hips together, and puts the chopped onions into the pot, watching as they start to brown. Spencer pushes them around idly with a wooden spoon, and doesn’t protest as Brendon stays there with him, leaning against him companionably after a moment. They stay like that while Spencer adds the chicken, the vegetable stock, the rest of the ingredients, with Brendon a sometimes-helpful weight against his side.

Finally, Spencer slides the heat down to low on the stove, nearly off, and Brendon slides an arm around his waist. “SVU?” he asks, quiet, as they watch the soup simmer.

“SVU,” Spencer agrees, and lets himself be led away from the soup, into the living room. 

They arrange themselves on the couch, various limbs draping over the sides and edge, Brendon in between Spencer’s legs and resting back against his stomach. It’s almost enough to make Spencer self-conscious, except Brendon makes a contented little noise as soon as he nestles down, and hooks an arm around Spencer’s thigh.

“Yeah, mama,” Brendon mutters as Mariska Hargitay gets her moment of scene-blitzing. “Punch ‘im again.”

Spencer just snorts idly, and pretends not to examine how he’s sifting his fingers through B’s hair. “Wow.”

“Our love is real,” Brendon protests. “You can’t handle that I’m into women who could beat the shit out of me,” he grins, tilting his head up until he can just see Spencer, who makes sure to give him a supremely unimpressed look.

“You got me, that’s totally it. You know, I always thought that she and the DA - the blonde one - had a thing,” Spencer muses, smirking a little at Brendon’s betrayed squawk.

“Wait, the - glasses? Witness protection?”

“Yeah, that one,” Spencer nods, still watching the episode halfheartedly, though he does grin a little as Brendon makes an intrigued noise.

“...Hot. I’ll allow it,” B sighs, after a bit, and starts essentially petting Spencer’s thigh, letting his head fall back against Spencer’s chest. “The heart wants what it wants.”

“Don’t quote that man at me,” Spencer says severely, giving Brendon’s hair a slight tug, his eyebrows quirking at the sharp inhalation he gets in return. He gives B a quick look and - huh. It’s a weird combination of gratifying and almost embarrassingly hot, the heavy-lidded blissed-out look on B’s face.“Yeah?” he asks, trying to fight off a grin as he makes a loose fist with the hand still in B’s hair.

“Shut up,” Brendon croaks, going red, trying to blink his eyes back open. “Just - shut up, asshole,” he whines, as Spencer starts giggling at him. “Oh my god, so it’s a thing, like you don’t have - jesus,” he whimpers, arching a little as Spencer gives his hair another quick, mean pull. “ _Spence_.”

“Wow, this is a really exploitable weakness I just found, I better make sure I don’t take advantage of it or anything,” Spencer chirps, delighted, beaming all over his face.

“Piece of - nnh, shit, stop,” Brendon squawks, smacking ineffectually at Spencer’s hands, before he narrows his eyes and wriggles around, planting a hand on the couch arm, just beside Spencer’s ribs. Spencer only gets a second to go wide-eyed and worried at the calculating glare Brendon gives him, before B’s shifting his weight, craning up, ducking under Spencer’s chin to lick the side of his neck.

Spencer squeaks and goes still, his cheeks flushing red as he bites his lip and tries stay frozen. Because his burgeoning erection is attracted to movement, like a T-Rex, and keeping still will keep it at bay.

“That’s right,” B says, sounding offensively smug, before he steps up his game and there are _teeth_ involved, and Spencer shudders, nearly knocking his room-temperature Coke over on the floor as he arches up under Brendon, trying to push him off.

Brendon’s snickering and still biting at his neck, the asshole, as Spencer flails for a few more seconds, trying to come up with a game plan - he whines a little, under his breath, and manages to get a hand up under Brendon’s shirt, digging his fingers in a little along the line of his ribs.

"Fuck," Brendon breathes, the word a hot exhalation against Spencer's skin, before the hand on Spence's leg tightens and yanks, tugging him down onto the couch cushions. "Yeah, just - c'mere," he murmurs, petting at Spence's thigh again, making a rumbly, deeply contented noise at the back of his throat. Spencer's eyes threaten to roll back into his head as B mouths over the cord in his neck and sets his teeth there, holding.

"Holy fuhhhhhn," Spence starts, getting derailed as Brendon nips at his neck and sucks, lips hot and wet. He accidentally squeezes the fist he still has of Brendon's hair, which makes B gasp and bite again, but then a girl gets murdered messily and loudly on the tv across the room. "Oh my god, can we - put it on mute or something, I can't - "

Brendon makes a complainy noise and stops groping Spencer's leg for long enough to fumble around on the floor. There's a telltale clunk, which Spence figures was probably his drink getting knocked over, but in the next second Brendon lobs one of Spencer's books with distressing accuracy and the tv's silenced and the only sounds in the apartment are the quiet clanks of the heating pipes, the squeak of the couch springs, and his and Brendon's unsteady breathing. 

Brendon actually pulls away from his neck enough to look up at him, and Spence freezes, wide-eyed and helplessly turned on at how dark B's eyes are, at how flushed he is. "Good, wanted to hear you," Brendon tells him, voice gone throaty and ridiculous and toe-curlingly hot, and he cranes up for a kiss before Spencer can make a crack about just wanting to avoid Pavlovian responses to Chris Meloni. 

It's weird to kiss someone easily, to be able to anticipate which way to cock his head, and Spencer shivers at the knowledge just as their mouths meet, Brendon's lips full and warm against his. The soft smacking sound of them making out is amplified in the quiet of the apartment, and Spencer lets his eyes lazily drift closed. He can feel it a few minutes later when suddenly, Brendon smiles. "What?" he murmurs, not pulling away, breathing the question directly against B's mouth.

B gives him a peck on the corner of his mouth, then nuzzles down to the crook of his jaw. "S’good," he replies, simple and honest. Spencer blinks his eyes back open at that, and pushes down into the cushions, enough to actually get to see B giving him a curious look.

"Yeah," he says, watching as Brendon looks puzzled for a few seconds before he realizes Spencer was agreeing. Then, he breaks into a delighted, self-conscious little smile, ducking his head and looking up at Spence through his eyelashes, til Spencer is beaming back at him. They both just stay like that for a moment, grinning at each other like doofuses, before Spencer laughs a little and shifts, wrapping both arms around B's middle and hugging him lightly, tugging him down.

"Well hel _lo_ ," Brendon purrs, after letting himself just be hugged, and Spencer snorts at how expected it is, just before he slides his hand back up B's spine and skritches his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. He smirks a little at the protesting whine Brendon gives him, but doesn't stop. 

"Hey," he says back, feeling weirdly loose and easy, which is not a combination of things he'd ever have expected to feel while sprawled underneath one Brendon Urie. "Okay?"

"Yep. Super okay," Bren assures him, before giving him a crooked little grin and moving back in for another kiss, slow and thorough and good, licking into Spencer's mouth like it's his own to explore. Spencer sighs and just goes with it, stretching out on the couch, one foot trailing along on the floor as he sifts fingers through Brendon's hair and gets his other hand back up his shirt, skimming his palm over the warm skin of B's back. He's tracing over the knobs of Brendon's spine when B huffs a groan and mutters something about fucking _hands_ , and rolls his hips a little. "Not fair," B croaks, nosing under Spencer's chin. 

"Want me to stop?" Spencer asks politely, chuckling as Brendon rears back and gives him a mortally offended look. "Okay, jesus."

"Do I want you to stop," Brendon grouses, before going back to mouthing along the underside of Spencer's jaw. "Trust me, Spence, the universal answer to that question is no."

"You and the world took a vote, huh?"

"Yeah, it was unanimous," Brendon tells him, before cutting Spencer off with another kiss, more demanding, less leisurely. Spencer can feel his face growing hot, from the praise and from Brendon's contagious urgency, and he groans softly into B's mouth, before he can help it. "There we go," Brendon murmurs, sounding pleased.

"Shut up," Spencer grumbles, fighting a dumb urge to bury himself in the mound of damn throw pillows Ryan keeps buying for the couch because he has an unnatural affinity for Crate & Barrel. Before he can get too far into his own head, though, B stops him with another hard kiss, obviously trying to get Spence to crack and shame himself _more_. Which is a real dick move, if Spencer's - wait.

"...be fucking kidding me," Brendon's muttering as he pulls away, kissing back toward Spencer's ear, shifting restlessly on the couch. "Hottest thing I ever heard, when you - before I murdered the lamp, I've been replaying it in my head for days."

"Oh." Spencer is going to combust from an exciting and new combination of embarrassment, delight, and crippling arousal. "...huh."

"Yeah," Brendon says darkly, doing interesting things to Spencer's earlobe. He shivers, and shifts along with Brendon, splaying his legs a little wider, letting B settle into the space between them more securely. At Bren's helpless little noise, hidden in the skin just behind his ear, Spencer grins to himself and curls his leg still on the couch around the back of Brendon's thigh, anchoring him in. 

"You still owe me a lamp," he tells Brendon, as he starts to tug on the hem of his shirt, pushing it up his sides as he slides both hands along the span of B's ribcage, slow and determined.

"Baby, I will buy you all the lamps," Brendon promises quickly, shivering visibly at so much touch all at once, and Spencer has no idea if it's the pet name or seeing B so affected by what they're doing, but in that instant he makes up his mind: he's getting that V-card punched, he’s giving it up to Brendon _right the fuck now_. He's in this for as much as B can give him. He'll figure the rest out later.

"That's okay, just get me off instead," Spencer tells him, shameless and honest and momentarily out of fucks to give. The look Brendon gives him is pretty gratifying: shocked and dark-eyed, frozen in place for half a second.

"What the actual shit, Spence," Brendon croaks, looking smacked over the head with lust, taking only a couple of seconds to get back on board and help get himself out of his own shirt. "That was so - "

"Yeah, okay," Spencer grumbles, frowning at Brendon's damn long-sleeved tee, finally just tugging and yanking it over his head, making his hair stick up crazily. They're both a little shaky, Spencer realizes, as they try to get Brendon's arms out of the seeming yards of fabric tangling them up. "Oh my god, what."

"I'm never wearing shirts again," Brendon says, frustrated, as he finally flaps his hands free. 

"Good," Spencer says, pausing to look Brendon over, run his hands over the bare skin of his back and shoulders. He's a little pale from spending winter indoors, but Brendon's skin is still warm, the promise of summer tan. "Fuck, I want you - I want - " but he can't even articulate what he means. _Everything. All of it._ B seems to get it, though, because he whines and reaches for the hem of Spence's sweater, pulling it up.

"You now, you too," he demands, bossy, but Spencer snorts and allows it, breaking into a breathless smile as he arches up off the couch a little (he's sort of proud of Brendon's hissed _holy shit_ at that move) so that B can pull the fabric up and over his head. He runs a hand through his hair after, blinks up at B, who’s staring down at him with a weirdly serious look on his face. 

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “What?”

It seems to snap Brendon out of his little no-shirt reverie, because his expression clears and he smirks a little, reaching for Spence, hands spidering down his arms slowly. “Nothing,” he says lightly, which - it’s almost insulting, that Brendon is such a bad liar and still tries it on him. But then he leans down and drags his lips along the ridge of Spencer’s collarbones, and Spence tables that fight for later. Instead, he exhales contentedly and runs his hands down Brendon’s chest, settling on the jut of his hipbones just above the waist of his jeans.

“We should - bed,” he manages, before sucking in a breath sharply as Brendon mouths over the base of his neck. 

“In a minute, just wanna,” Brendon starts, before trailing off in a little whine as Spencer squeezes his legs around him. “Damn, Spence,” he grumbles, craning up for a kiss, propping himself up on his elbows either side of Spencer’s head.

"I know, sweetheart, I - " Spencer starts, before he's cut off by another kiss, Brendon groaning into his mouth, hips snapping down. "Fuck," he gasps, grabbing onto B, rolling against him. They start a hesitant little rhythm, grinding together for a couple of heady minutes, before Spencer shudders and slides his hand back along Brendon's front, fingers finding the button of his jeans and thumbing it open, squirming into the warm space. 

He wriggles his fingertips down as far as he can, given the weird angle, shocked when he brushes them against the hot, damp tip of B's dick. "Yeah, good," he breathes, as Brendon shivers out a low moan and buries his face in the crook of Spencer’s neck. 

He gets the zip down, gets a little more room to work with, and can't help the hungry noise that escapes him when he finally manages to curl his hand around Brendon's cock. They're still rocking together, curled up tight on the couch, and Spencer splays his free hand on the small of B's back, keeping him locked in tight. He turns his head, enough to press a kiss to Brendon's ear. "Okay?"

B just nods, keeping his face where it is, and Spencer licks at his earlobe, nuzzling in as he rubs his thumb over the head of Brendon's dick, spreading the wetness he finds there. “You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice a croak, and B’s cock blurts out another couple drops of precome, making the slide of Spencer’s hand nice and easy. He has a couple weird seconds of complete disconnect, disbelief that he’s actually here, that they’re actually doing this, but then Brendon twists his hips up, shamelessly fucking into Spencer’s grip, and his mouth falls open at how hot that filthy little movement is, how much he _wants_. 

Then B lifts his head up, eyes glittering hot, and crashes their mouths together as he shifts his weight up on his arms and starts to move, short little hunches, pushing up restlessly through Spencer’s fist. Spence squeaks embarrassingly, legs tightening around Bren so they don’t both fall off the couch, and Brendon gasps and snaps his hips up _hard_ at that, and everything threatens to devolve into a terrible feedback loop of horniness.

Especially when B starts talking.

“Yeah like that, juuust like - god, knew you’d be so good at this, Spence, fucking - used to watch you in band and think - “ he murmurs, before cutting himself off, pressing his mouth against Spencer’s jaw, setting his teeth there gently. Spencer’s lightheaded, both at the lack of blood anywhere in his body other than his dick, and at the prospect of Brendon ever having looked. 

“Handjob virtuoso, that’s me,” he says, before he can stop himself. 

Above him, Brendon pulls back and pauses for a second, looking deeply startled, before he starts laughing. Spencer blinks, and can’t help a little frisson of happiness at making B laugh, even given the context. _Mostly_ he wants to walk into traffic, but a small part of him is delighted.

“What the fuck, don’t stop,” B orders, still snickering even as he mouths along Spencer’s neck, breaking into a fresh wave of giggles as Spencer turns his head, murmurs _don’t stop get it get it_ directly into his ear. “Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with us,” he complains, breaking off to groan as Spencer employs a judicious twist of his wrist.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your soulful slow bone session,” Spencer says, kissing along Brendon’s cheek, sliding his free hand up to twist in B’s hair until he lets out a reedy little whine. 

“Spence,” Bren gasps, sounding suddenly overwhelmed, “seriously don’t stop, don’t - “

“Not going to,” Spencer promises, petting through B’s hair, rubbing the back of his neck as he works him over. “Gonna get you there, baby, make you come all over - “ he starts, but he’s interrupted as Brendon shivers and does just that, moaning brokenly against him as he shoots off, striping over Spencer’s fingers and onto both their stomachs. Spencer gasps and rocks against him, so hard it hurts, but he milks B through it, letting his hand stop when Brendon whimpers and collapses down on top of him.

“Jeeeeeeesus christ,” Brendon pants, turning his head enough to glance up at Spence through hazy eyes. Spencer grimaces and drags his hand out from between them, and inspects it, equal parts intrigued and grossed out by how his fingers and knuckles are still wet from B’s come. He brings one knuckle up to his mouth, not really thinking about it as he licks it clean, startled by the low _god in heaven_ Brendon growls. 

“Your turn,” B says firmly, picking himself up enough to get a hand between them, start on the button and zip to Spencer’s jeans, and Spencer’s breath rattles in his chest as he watches Brendon hook his fingers under the hem of his underwear and tug them and his pants down at the same time, til they’re halfway down his thighs. 

“So fucking pretty,” Brendon sighs. Spencer’s torn: he’s not sure he wants to have a pretty dick, but approval is always nice. But then Bren leans back down, starts to mouth along Spencer’s collarbones, and that’s - wow. 

The first touch of Brendon’s hand to his dick makes him suck in a breath sharply, and he’s suddenly very aware that yeah, this is going to be over fast. Especially if B keeps staring up at him with hot, dark eyes, kissing down along his chest, exploring, as his hand wraps around and starts jacking him perfectly. 

It’s so fucking good. Brendon’s gazing up at him, watching Spencer with an uncharacteristic amount of focus, and normally he’d be embarrassed from the attention, but he’s distracted by B’s mouth, all red and wrecked from the kissing. “So good, Spence, doing so good,” B tells him, which is apparently exactly what Spencer needed to hear, given how boneless he goes, the rapt little sigh he can’t stifle. He rocks up into B’s hands, as much as he can, stretching his arms up to hold onto the armrest of the couch above his head, and Brendon groans his approval, wriggling down further on the couch, his mouth tickling down near Spencer’s navel.

“Fuck, your - jesuschrist,” Spencer whines, closing his eyes as B looks up at him and _licks his lips_. 

“Yeah?” Brendon asks, pleased. “What, want me to keep going?”

“Goddammit,” Spencer whines, his mouth falling open as Brendon’s grip tightens up a little, his pace speeding up. “Oh my god, just.”

“Just what? Want me to get my mouth on you, suck on it a little?” B asks, his voice all gravel and promise. Spencer makes a high, sharp sound, and shakes, biting his lip to keep from answering. “Let you fuck your big d - “

“ _Bren_ ,” Spencer groans, anguished, his eyes still squeezed shut. It doesn’t stop the barrage of mental images, though, and Spencer barely has time to register the familiar tightening in his stomach before he’s coming, eyes snapping open, one hand shooting down to grab onto Brendon’s arm to keep from flying apart. He gasps through it, shuddering hard for a few long moments, finally whining and shrinking back into the couch cushions when Brendon’s hand on him gets to be too much. 

B’s hand slows to a stop, and Spencer risks a glance down. Brendon’s staring up at him, open-mouthed. “...What?” Spencer asks, too come-dumb to get nervous.

“Spence,” Brendon murmurs, craning back up to kiss him, sweet and lasting. Spencer blinks, but realizes the kiss is his answer, and gives out a little sigh as he lets himself sink into it.

 

They trade lazy kisses on the couch for a while, before Spencer gets too itchy and grumpy about the dried jizz all over both of them, and demands to be allowed to take a shower. He’s doing a good job, so far, of avoiding a post-V-card-punching freakout, but he can feel it looming, and he’d really rather not have anybody else see it. 

"Seriously, gross," he whines, pushing half heartedly at B's shoulder, rolling his eyes when Brendon refuses to move and, instead, gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “That’s not less gross,” he grumbles, rubbing at his face. 

“Your face isn’t gross, Spencer,” Brendon tells him solemnly, smirking a little bit when he huffs and smacks B’s arm. “You are beautiful, in every single way.”

“I swear to god, B, if you start fucking singing that - “

“Hey, words can’t bring you down,” Brendon half-croons at him, cackling goofily as Spencer shoves his shoulder and manages to roll them onto their sides, pinning B against the back of the couch. Spencer kisses him then, mostly to shut him up, and Brendon hums the next line into Spencer’s mouth, pouting when he pulls away. “What? These are the lyrics of my heart, Smith the Fifth.”

“If the lyrics of your heart are written by Christina Aguilera, I’m filing for divorce right now,” Spencer tells him cruelly, brushing Brendon’s hair off of his face. 

“I mean, now that annulment’s off the table,” Brendon says, looking insufferably smug, stretching his arms up over his head and settling back into the crux of the couch. Spencer can’t quite help the pleased little grin he gets at the reminder. “And you can’t call me ‘sweetheart’ and then threaten divorce and think I’ll believe you.”

He goes tomato-red in seconds at the memory, and groans as he hides his face in Brendon’s shoulder. “Once! I said it _once_. And you call me that stuff all the time,” he grouses, a weird mix of embarrassed and smug.

“Did I sound like I was complaining?” Brendon points out, slinging his arm around Spence’s middle, casually possessive in a way that is doing nothing to make Spencer’s blush fade. “Because that was not me complaining. That was triumph. I should get, like, a medal.”

Spencer snorts, and doesn’t examine how B’s started rubbing his back, or how he’s apparently skritching his fingers through the hair at the back of Brendon’s neck. “You should probably hold out for an actual trophy.”

“I do like trophies. One that says First Place In Assisted Orgasms,” Brendon adds, looking thoughtful. 

“I dunno. Honorable Mention, maybe,” Spencer teases, biting his lip at the dark look and the swat to his bare hip that Brendon gives him.

“ _First place,_ ” Brendon insists, ducking in to bite unfairly at Spencer’s neck. “Or maybe just ‘Sweetheart’,” he adds, snickering at the irritable huff Spencer exhales.

“Dick. That’s what it can say,” he grumbles. “In a really tiny font,” he adds meanly, before Brendon gets a chance to make the obvious joke.

“Babycakes, that hurts me. Right in my heart,” B tells him mildly, before starting to actually _suck_ on Spencer’s neck, jesus fucking goddamn.

“The fuck kind of Edward Cullen fantasy are you living right now?” Spencer asks, proud of how his voice is only a little uneven. Seriously, his cock is snugged up against Brendon’s from where they never pulled their pants up, B can probably feel it trying to get hard again. 

“The kind where you have a ginormous hickey and everybody and their mom knows I hit that,” Brendon says, muffled around a mouthful of Spencer’s skin. 

“That is so fucking romantic,” Spencer snorts, hoping Brendon didn’t catch how he shivered and arched. “Just. Wow. SVU and you giving me bruises, and worrying we got jizz on the couch, this is how I always hoped my first time would go,” he says dryly, not really registering what he’s just given away until Brendon freezes for a very long, terrifying moment. “...shit,” he breathes, as B pulls away.

“For real?” Bren asks, looking sort of conflicted. _Shiiiiiiiiiiiit._

“I mean.” Spencer’s actually lightheaded from the whiplash of going from kinda turned on to near-puking anxiousness. “...I wasn’t, like. Saving myself for Jesus or something. Don’t make it a thing.”

“No, hey. Spence, that wasn’t - fuck, baby, you look like I’m going to set you on fire,” Brendon huffs, leaning in to kiss him quickly, cupping Spencer’s cheek and staying close, his breath warm against Spence’s lips. “Don’t freak out. Just wish we’d made it to the bedroom. And maybe actually taken clothes off,” he says ruefully, his thumb brushing over Spencer’s cheekbone. 

Spencer exhales the breath he’d been holding, and slumps against Brendon a little, relieved. “Fucker,” he grumbles, letting Brendon scatter a couple of apology kisses over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, gosh, it’s a real shame all of my Boyz II Men music video fantasies didn’t happen, since we can never do it again,” he says tartly.

Brendon snorts. “We can do that. I have a white button-down somewhere. I mean, I’m not sure Target sells area fans in February, but I will totally borrow one. You know Tom or Jon has one. I will make that happen,” he says firmly. 

“You better. I want to see that shirt _billow_ ,” Spencer tells him, severe. 

“Sexy billowing. Check.” Spencer can’t help it, he smiles at that, has to press a kiss to B’s cheek at the enormous, relieved grin he gets in return. “You okay?” Brendon asks, running a warm hand down Spencer’s back. 

“Yeah, m’good,” Spencer tells him truthfully. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” B says, looking thoughtful. “I mean. ...Are you gonna be mad if I say I’m pretty smug about getting up on that first?” he asks, biting his lip, shooting Spence a sheepish grin. “Because seriously, go me. Team Brendon, for the fucking win.”

“That is not heartwarming,” Spencer lies, squirming a little as Brendon’s hand slips down under his jeans, palming his ass interestedly. “...but that’d be a good inscription for your trophy. Subtle.”

“Oh my god, you brought it full circle. You are so hot,” B tells him, looking delighted. 

“You could put it on top of the bookcase and refuse to let Ryan move it, and give him an aneurysm with how tacky it is.” At that, Brendon gives Spencer a look of such joy and hope that he starts snickering and can’t stop.

 

Eventually, Brendon lets Spencer off of the couch, lets him get the first shower.

“Don’t know why you’re bothering, I have plans for later,” Brendon tells him, brandishing a spatula, before he goes back to stirring the soup on the stove. He’s wearing one of Spencer’s green aprons and underwear and that’s it. It is not at all charming and Spencer does not want to take pictures.

“I don’t know what you think you’re gonna accomplish, I’m not touching you if you’re still encrusted with old come,” Spencer informs him as he heads toward the shower.

“Encrusted with _love_ ,” Brendon calls after him. “Like a porny Faberge egg.”

“Congratulations, we’re never having sex again,” Spencer hollers from the other side of the shower curtain, just before he turns on the water. It’s not fast enough for him to miss Brendon’s muttered _lies, Smith, lies_.

Spencer takes a bit longer than normal in the shower, gives into a short, weird little meltdown as he scrubs his stomach clean, because oh fuck oh holy god he had sex he had sex with Brendon oh christ. Part of him is freaked out - Brendon saw his dick earlier - but that part is slowly getting drowned out by the rest of him throwing a victory party. It was...good. It was fun. Brendon wants to do it again. Brendon wants him, Brendon liked it, Spencer made him come.

By the time he finishes getting clean, Spencer’s firmly in the Sex, Fuck Yeah! camp, and he’s trying to avoid getting chubbed up at the memories. He dries off and cinches the towel around his waist, and saunters past B, who’s still futzing around in the kitchen, and heads to their bedroom to pull on pjs. 

He gets a look at himself in the mirror over the dresser, as he’s pulling on an old Styx t-shirt, and freezes.

“Fucking _jesus_ , Bren, I look like I got mauled by a tiger!” he yelps, loud enough that Brendon has to come and inspect his handiwork, smirking hugely.

“Hell yeah you do,” Brendon says, unhelpful, as Spencer gapes at the massive purpling bruise on his throat. “Team Brendon! USA! USA! USA!” He throws up both arms, and heads back to the kitchen.

“Take a shower, asshole!” Spencer calls after him, rubbing a hand over his face and trying not to give into a sudden wild urge to start giggling hysterically. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to cover the mark up for work; he is going to get a metric fuckton of shit from everyone there, and Ryan is probably going to look disgusted for the next week until it fades. 

“USA, USA, USA,” he whispers, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um. hi! :D?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dawned on Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/491769) by [thismuchmore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thismuchmore/pseuds/thismuchmore)




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